The Wasted Fountains.
"And their nobles have sent their little ones to the waters: they came to the pits and found no water; they returned with their vessels empty." Jer xiv. 3.
When the youthful fever of the soul,
Is awakened in thee first,
And thou goest, like Judah's children forth
To slake thy burning thirst;
And when dry and wasted like the springs
Sought by that little band,
Before thee, in their emptiness
Life's broken cisterns stand;
When the golden fruits that tempted thee,
Turn to ashes on the taste,
And thine early visions fade and pass,
Like the mirage of the waste;
When faith darkens, and hopes vanish,
In the shade of coming years,
And the urn thou bearest is empty,
Or o'erflowing with thy tears;
Though the transient springs have failed thee,
Though the founts of youth are dried,
Wilt thou among the mouldering stones
Wilt thou sit among the ruins,
With all words of cheer unspoken,
Till the silver cord is loosened,
Till the golden bowl is broken?
Up and onward! toward the East
Green oases thou shalt find,Streams that rise from higher sources, Than the pools thou leavest behind.
Life has import more inspiring
Than the fancies of thy youth;
It has hopes as high as Heaven,
It has labour, it has truth.
It has wrongs that may be righted,
Noble deeds that may be done;
Its great battles are unfought,
Its great triumphs are unwon.
There is rising from its troubled depths,
A low, unceasing moan;
There are aching, there are breaking,
Other hearts beside thine own.
From strong limbs that should be chainless,
There are fetters to unbind:
There are words to raise the fallen,
There is light to give the blind;
There are crushed and broken spirits,
That electrie thoughts may thrill;
Lofty dreams to be embodied,
By the might of one strong will.
There are God and truth above thee,—
Wilt though languish in despair?
Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet,-
Scale the walls of Heaven by prayer.
'Tis the key of the Apostle,
That opens Heaven from below; 'Tis the ladder of the patriarch,
Whereon angels come and go.
Desert Memphis's gorgeous graves,
Phile's Isle, whose ruins smile,
In the mirror of the Nile;
Peaceful Cashmere's flowery vale,
Hallowed scene of Eastern tale;
Georgia, where God's noblest creature,
Shows his noblest form and feature;
Mecca's house, Medina's shrine,
Shiraz, flushed with rosy wine.
Bold achievements, noble feats,
Whose emprise man's wonder greets;
Whose success e'en glads his ghost,
You I ne'er must hope to boast.
By the foolish vulgar throng,
Both detained, and dragged along,
After things just born to die,
Made to join the vulgar cry.
In the toil of each dull day,
My best years have passed away;
Till, approaching fast my wane,
Winter claims my worn out brain
Tales that used my soul t' inspire,
Now I hear with calmness told;
Sights that set my blood on fire,
Now that torpid blood leave cold ·
Slow and tedious is my pace,
And no longer dare I hope,
Vigour, while I run the race,
Pleasure, when I reach the scope.
Then adieu, once dazzling dreams,
Leave oh! leave my haunted mind,
Weary of its brilliant schemes,
To an humbler fate resigned;
Simpler tasks my toil demand,
Nearer objects claim my care,
Higher duties for my hand,
Humbler labours fast prepare.
These with honour to achieve,
And a virtuous race to leave,
When, in everlasting rest,
And, perchance among the blest,
I this globe's vain joys deride,
Henceforth by my only pride.
"Man shall not live by bread alone."
Yet evermore, through years renewed
In undisturbed vicissitude,
Of seasons balancing their flight
On the swift wings of day and night,
Kind nature keeps a heavenly door,
Wide open for the scattered poor,
Where flower-breathed incense, to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies :
And ground fresh cloven by the plough,
Is fragrant with a humbler vow:
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles;
And vapours magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head:
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the Almighty's will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields,
Her admonitions nature yields:
That not by bread alone we live,
Or what a hand of flesh can give :
That every day should leave some part
Free, for a Sabbath of the heart:
So shall the Seventh be truly blest,
From morn to eve with hallowed rest!
"Correct me: but not with anger, lest thou bring me to nothing."— Jer. x. 24.
WE need not ask for suffering: when its test
Comes, we may prove too faithless to endure—
We need not ask for suffering-it were best
We wait God's holy orderings to ensure
Our highest good. But we may ask from Him
That not one throb of grief, one dart of pain,
One burning pang of anguish, pierce in vain
This feeble being, in its faith so dim,
This fainting frame, or this o'erburthened heart:
We may implore Him. He would grace impart
And strength, to suffer still as the beloved
Of His own bosom. For of all below,
The one affliction in this world of woe
Most sad, is an affliction unimproved.
SOME favourite studies-some delightful care,
The mind with trouble and distresses share;
And by a coin, a flower, a verse, a boat,
The stagnant spirits have been made to float.
ALAS! a deeper test of Faith,
Than prison cell or martyr's stake,
The self-abasing watchfulness.
Of silent prayer may make.
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