Cottage Poems | Page 4

descent
Invite us through pleasures to stray!
Whilst Satan, with hellish intent,
Suggests that we ought to obey.
But trust not the father of lies,
He tempts you with vanity's dream;
His pleasure, when touched,
quickly dies,
Like bubbles that dance on the stream.
Look not on the wine when it
glows
All ruddy, in vessels of gold;
At last it will sting your repose,
And death at the bottom unfold. {208}
But lo! an unnatural night
Pours suddenly down on the eye;
The sun has withdrawn all his light,
And rolls a black globe o'er the sky!
And hark! what a cry rent the
air!
Immortal the terrible sound!--
The rocks split with honible tear,
And fearfully shakes all the ground!
The dead from their slumbers awake,
And, leaving their mouldy domain,
Make poor guilty mortals to
quake
As pallid they glide o'er the plain!
Sure, Nature's own God is
oppressed,

And Nature in agony cries;--
The sun in his mourning is dressed,
To tell the sad news through the skies!
Yet surely some victory's gained,
Important, and novel, and great,
Since Death has his captives
unchained,
And widely thrown open his gate!
Yes, victory great as a God
Could gain over hell, death, and sin,
This moment's achieved by the
blood
Of Jesus, our crucified King.
But all the dread conflict is o'er;
Lo! cloud after cloud rolls away;
And heaven, serene as before,
Breaks forth in the splendour of day!
And all the sweet landscape
around,
Emerged from the ocean of night,
With groves, woods, and villages
crowned,
Astonish and fill with delight!
But see! where that crowd melts away,
Three crosses sad spectacles show!
Our Guide has not led us astray;
Heart! this is the secret you'd know--
Two thieves, and a crucified
God
Hangs awfully mangled between!
Whilst fast from His veins spouting
blood

Runs, dyeing with purple the green!
Behold! the red flood rolls along,
And forming a bason below,
Is termed in Emanuel's song
The fount for uncleanness and woe.
Immerged in that precious tide,
The soul quickly loses its stains,
Though deeper than crimson they're
dyed,
And 'scapes from its sorrows and pains.
This fountain is opened for you:
Go, wash, without money or price;
And instantly formed anew,
You'll lose all your woes in a trice.
Then cease, foolish heart, to
repine,
No stage is exempted from care;
If you would true happiness find,
'Tis on Calvary--seek for it there.
WINTER-NIGHT MEDITATIONS.
Rude winter's come, the sky's o'ercast,
The night is cold and loud the
blast,
The mingling snow comes driving down,
Fast whitening o'er
the flinty ground.
Severe their lots whose crazy sheds
Hang
tottering o'er their trembling heads:
Whilst blows through walls and
chinky door
The drifting snow across the floor,
Where blinking
embers scarcely glow,
And rushlight only serves to show
What well
may move the deepest sigh,
And force a tear from pity's eye.
You
there may see a meagre pair,
Worn out with labour, grief, and care:

Whose naked babes, in hungry mood,
Complain of cold and cry for
food;
Whilst tears bedew the mother's cheek,
And sighs the father's

grief bespeak;
For fire or raiment, bed or board,
Their dreary shed
cannot afford.
Will no kind hand confer relief,
And wipe away the tear of grief?
A
little boon it well might spare
Would kindle joy, dispel their care,

Abate the rigour of the night
And warm each heart--achievement
bright.
Yea, brighter far than such as grace
The annals of a princely
race,
Where kings bestow a large domain
But to receive as much
again,
Or e'en corrupt the purest laws,
Or fan the breath of vain
applause.
Peace to the man who stoops his head
To enter the most wretched
shed:
Who, with his condescending smiles,
Poor diffidence and awe
beguiles:
Till all encouraged, soon disclose
The different causes of
their woes--
The moving tale dissolves his heart:
He liberally
bestows a part
Of God's donation. From above
Approving Heaven,
in smiles of love,
Looks on, and through the shining skies
The great
Recording Angel flies
The doors of mercy to unfold,
And write the
deed in lines of gold;
There, if a fruit of Faith's fair tree,
To shine
throughout eternity,
In honour of that Sovereign dread,
Who had no
place to lay His head,
Yet opened wide sweet Mercy's door
To all
the desolate and poor,
Who, stung with guilt and hard oppressed,

Groaned to be with Him, and at rest.
Now, pent within the city wall,
They throng to theatre and hall,

Where gesture, look, and words conspire,
To stain the mind, the
passions fire;
Whence sin-polluted streams abound,
That whelm the
country all around.

Ah! Modesty, should you be here,
Close up the
eye and stop the ear;
Oppose your fan, nor peep beneath,
And
blushing shun their tainted breath.
Here every rake exerts his art
T' ensnare the unsuspecting heart.

The prostitute, with faithless smiles,
Remorseless plays her tricks and
wiles.
Her gesture bold and ogling eye,
Obtrusive speech and pert

reply,
And brazen front and stubborn tone,
Show all her native
virtue's flown.
By her the thoughtless youth is ta'en,
Impoverished,
disgraced, or slain:
Through her the marriage vows are broke,
And
Hymen proves a galling yoke.
Diseases come, destruction's dealt,

Where'er her poisonous breath is felt;
Whilst she, poor wretch, dies in
the flame
That runs through her polluted frame.
Once