Poems of Nature, part 5, Religious Poems 1 | Page 5

and, whatever may
have been their errors, deserve to be ranked among those who have in
all ages suffered for the freedom of conscience.
Father! to Thy suffering poor
Strength and grace and faith impart,

And with Thy own love restore
Comfort to the broken heart!
Oh,
the failing ones confirm
With a holier strength of zeal!
Give Thou
not the feeble worm
Helpless to the spoiler's heel!
Father! for Thy holy sake
We are spoiled and hunted thus;
Joyful,
for Thy truth we take
Bonds and burthens unto us
Poor, and weak,
and robbed of all,
Weary with our daily task,
That Thy truth may
never fall
Through our weakness, Lord, we ask.
Round our fired and wasted homes
Flits the forest-bird unscared,

And at noon the wild beast comes
Where our frugal meal was shared;

For the song of praises there
Shrieks the crow the livelong day;

For the sound of evening prayer
Howls the evil beast of prey!
Sweet the songs we loved to sing
Underneath Thy holy sky;
Words
and tones that used to bring
Tears of joy in every eye;
Dear the
wrestling hours of prayer,
When we gathered knee to knee,

Blameless youth and hoary hair,
Bowed, O God, alone to Thee.
As Thine early children, Lord,
Shared their wealth and daily bread,

Even so, with one accord,
We, in love, each other fed.
Not with us

the miser's hoard,
Not with us his grasping hand;
Equal round a
common board,
Drew our meek and brother band!
Safe our quiet Eden lay
When the war-whoop stirred the land
And
the Indian turned away
From our home his bloody hand.
Well that
forest-ranger saw,
That the burthen and the curse
Of the white
man's cruel law
Rested also upon us.
Torn apart, and driven forth
To our toiling hard and long,
Father!
from the dust of earth
Lift we still our grateful song!
Grateful, that
in bonds we share
In Thy love which maketh free;
Joyful, that the
wrongs we bear,
Draw us nearer, Lord, to Thee!
Grateful! that where'er we toil,--
By Wachuset's wooded side,
On
Nantucket's sea-worn isle,
Or by wild Neponset's tide,--
Still, in
spirit, we are near,
And our evening hymns, which rise
Separate
and discordant here,
Meet and mingle in the skies!
Let the scoffer scorn and mock,
Let the proud and evil priest
Rob
the needy of his flock,
For his wine-cup and his feast,--
Redden not
Thy bolts in store
Through the blackness of Thy skies?
For the
sighing of the poor
Wilt Thou not, at length, arise?
Worn and wasted, oh! how long
Shall thy trodden poor complain?

In Thy name they bear the wrong,
In Thy cause the bonds of pain!

Melt oppression's heart of steel,
Let the haughty priesthood see,

And their blinded followers feel,
That in us they mock at Thee!
In Thy time, O Lord of hosts,
Stretch abroad that hand to save

Which of old, on Egypt's coasts,

Smote apart the Red Sea's wave

Lead us from this evil land,
From the spoiler set us free,
And once
more our gathered band,
Heart to heart, shall worship Thee!
1838.
EZEKIEL

Also, thou son of man, the children of thy people still are talking
against thee by the walls and in the doors of the houses, and speak one
to another, every one to his brother, saying, Come, I pray you, and hear
what is the word that cometh forth from the Lord. And they come unto
thee as the people cometh, and they sit before thee as my people, and
they hear thy words, but they will not do them: for with their mouth
they skew much love, but their heart goeth after their covetousness.
And, lo, thou art unto them as a very lovely song of one that hath a
pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument: for they hear thy
words, but they do them not. And when this cometh to pass, (lo, it will
come,) then shall they know that a prophet hath been among
them.--EZEKIEL, xxxiii. 30-33.
They hear Thee not, O God! nor see;
Beneath Thy rod they mock at
Thee;
The princes of our ancient line
Lie drunken with Assyrian
wine;
The priests around Thy altar speak
The false words which
their hearers seek;
And hymns which Chaldea's wanton maids
Have
sung in Dura's idol-shades
Are with the Levites' chant ascending,

With Zion's holiest anthems blending!
On Israel's bleeding bosom set,
The heathen heel is crushing yet;

The towers upon our holy hill
Echo Chaldean footsteps still.
Our
wasted shrines,--who weeps for them?
Who mourneth for Jerusalem?

Who turneth from his gains away?
Whose knee with mine is
bowed to pray?
Who, leaving feast and purpling cup,
Takes Zion's
lamentation up?
A sad and thoughtful youth, I went
With Israel's early banishment;

And where the sullen Chebar crept,
The ritual of my fathers kept.

The water for the trench I drew,
The firstling of the flock I slew,

And, standing at the altar's side,
I shared the Levites' lingering pride,

That still, amidst her mocking foes,
The smoke of Zion's offering
rose.
In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame,
The Spirit of the Highest came!


Before mine eyes a vision passed,
A glory terrible and vast;
With
dreadful eyes of living things,
And sounding sweep of angel wings,

With circling light and sapphire throne,
And flame-like form of One
thereon,
And voice of that dread Likeness sent
Down from the
crystal