Or in the characters that brightly tell
Around me Hope has woven fairy spell,
And on my future path—unlike the past—
The sunshine of enjoyment shall be cast
And on that page I dare believe 'tis seen—
Still shall the thought ne'er trouble me. Serene,
Indifferent, even, will I be, for Thou,
O God, hast been, and still, I trust, art now
And ever will be mine. What need I more?
To me what boots it that the future store
Of good, or ill, is unrevealed? I must,
Were all this known, but make my God my trust.
And this I'll do, unknowing His intent,
And praise Him still, till life's poor sand is spent, —
Till I, with others, on the plains above,
Shall, wondering, spell out all His ways of love;
And oh, to read in lines of glory, then,
How God, in all, is justified to men!
THE House of Mercy-sacred pool—
Whose gracious wave was wont to cure,
Beneath the Great Physician's rule,
The lame, blind, halt, and withered poor,
Is theme of sweet instruction, telling
That errand angels make their dwelling
With man; untiring spirits they,
Who, or to bide, or fly, or roam,
With willing wings their Lord obey
On earth, as in their starry home.
Bethesda in the lapse of years
Who may recount the groans and tears,
The hopes dashed down, the keen despair-
All that the sickened heart can wear
Of human ill, that by thy side
Have clustered, mocking human pride?
Or of the thousands who have sat
Thus by thy well, in hope, how few
Seizing the precious moment that
Should heal, stepped in and found it true! And what's the world we tread, but one Bethesda, where the heirs of pain Are watchers where the lost, undone, Expecting, wait, and wait in vain — Where multitudes lose Hope's sweet power, To one that finds the Angel's hour!
And one, among that waiting crowd,
For two-score years has, patient, bowed
Beneath his suff'rings. Time has past-
His youthful locks of glossy jet
Have whitened by these waters, yet
Is he unhealed. His manly cheek
Is scarred with lines that old age speak;
And he has seen Bethesda heal,
While on its virtues lay a seal
For him, a wretch to misery sold.
And he has seen the young, the old,
The timorous, doubting, and the bold
Go down, while he aside is cast.
Yet not for want of effort, he
Is left in his infirmity.
How often, when despair was nigh,
He checked the fiend!—his eager eye
Kindled once more with hope : - the cry
Went round," THE ANGEL!"- then he strove
By thought of all that bound his love
To life, to rise and in the wave
Of healing, his disease to lave.
But e'en while coming, feebly, slow,
The stronger gained the pool below;
Another stepped before him, — hand
Was none to help, or guide his foot-
Not one of kin, or friendship's band
The old man in the wave to put.
Yes! there was One drew near him then,
Of rich compassion, more than men.
He comes no conqueror so great —
In lowly, meek, derided state.
His followers base esteemed, the scum
Of earth- the heirs of crowns to come.
And who is He! I know him now
By that pale cheek and wondrous brow;
That face with softest pity beaming,
That awful eye whence God is gleaming.
"Wilt thou be healed?" he kindly said;-
Could He raise wishes, but to balk?
Oh, no! when JESUS speaks, the dead
Shall live, all mortal ills must die; -
At His command diseases fly,
The sick shall take his bed and walk!
GOD! while dusky Hindostan
Sees the light that comes from Thee, While no more Mahratta's man
Gives to Boodh the knee,
While again the Grecian hears
On his Mars'-hill, truth, profound,
While the Crescent disappears
From Calvary's holy ground, -
Yea, while Smyrna far hath cast
Age's seven-fold bigot pall,
And for China word hath past
That overleaps her wall.
God! shall not the Negro's land
As other lands be blest?
Shall not Ethiopia's band
Enter into rest?
Shall Sahara's parched ranger
Never taste the rivulet?
Still shall Christendom the stranger
In the Moorish gate forget?
While thy Dove of Mystery
Every where is flying,
Will not leaves of healing be
Sent to Afric, dying?
Where Cleopatra the pearl
Mingled, is thy pearl forbid ?
Shall not men the Cross unfurl
On the Pyramid !
May not upon night again
Open the immortal morn, Where Cyprian taught, and Origen Adorned the priestly lawn? May not hamlets that festoon, Beautifully, Niger's flood, With Alexandria and Wednoon, Be given unto God?
On the coast of nations, look!
Where deceitful beams prevail —
Shall they not, at thy rebuke,
Pale, as stars at morning pale ?
Wilt Thou not awake the dead?
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