The purple and the gold, that far outvie
The eastern monarch's garment, e'en with the dock,
E'en with the baleful hemlock's irksome green;
Without thy aid, without thy gladsome beams,
The tribes of woodland warblers would remain
Mute on the bending branches, nor recite
The praise of Him, who ere He formed their lord,
Their voices tuned to transport, winged their flight,
And bade them call for nurture, and receive:
And lo! they call; the blackbird and the thrush,
The woodlark and the redbreast, jointly call;
He hears and feeds their feathered families;
He feeds his sweet musicians, nor neglects
The invoking ravens in the green wood wide;
And though their throats coarse rattling meet the ear,
They mean it all for music, thanks and praise;
They mean, and leave ingratitude to man.
But not to all!-for hark! the organs blow
Their swelling notes round the cathedral's dome,
And grace the harmonious choir, celestial feast
To pious ears, and medicine of the mind!
The thrilling trebles, and the manly base,
Join in accordance meet, and with one voice
All to the sacred subject suit their song.
While in each breast sweet melancholy reigns
Angelically pensive, till the joy
Improves and purifies; the solemn scene
The sun through storied panes surveys with awe,
And bashfully withholds each golden beam.
Here, as her home, from morn to eve frequents
The cherub Gratitude; behold her eyes!
With love and gladness weepingly they shed
Ecstatic smiles; the incense that her hands
Uprear, is sweeter than the breath of May
Caught from the nectarine's blossom, and her voice
Is more than voice can tell; to Him she sings,
To Him who feeds, who clothes, and who adorns,
Who made, and who preserves, whatever dwells
In air, in stedfast earth, or fickle sea.
Oh! He is good, He is immensely good!
Who all things formed, and formed them all for man;
Who marked the climates, varied every zone,
Dispensing all his blessings for the best,
In order and in beauty! Rise, attend,
Attest, and praise, ye quarters of the world!
Bow down, ye elephants, submissive bow
To Him who made the mite. Though, Asia's pride,
Ye carry armies on your tower-crowned backs,
And grace the turbaned tyrants, bow to Him
Who is as great, as perfect, and as good
In his less striking wonders, till at length
The eye's at fault and seeks the assisting glass;
Approach, and bring from Araby the Blest
The fragrant cassia, frankincense and myrrh,
And, meekly kneeling at the altar's foot,
Lay all the tributary incense down.
Stoop, feeble Africa, with reverence stoop, .
And from thy brow take off the painted plume;
With golden ingots all thy camels load
To adorn his temples; hasten with thy spear
Reverted, and thy trusty bow unstrung,
While, unpursued, thy lions roam and roar,
And ruined towers, rude rocks, and caverns wide,
Remurmur to the glorious surly sound.
And thou, fair India, whose immense domain
To counterpoise the hemisphere, extends,
Haste from the west, and with thy fruits and flowers,
Thy mines and medicines, wealthy maid, attend.
More than the plenteousness so famed to flow,
By fabling bards, from Amalthea's horn,
Is thine! thine, therefore, be a portion due
Of thanks and praise: come with thy brilliant crown
And vest of fur; and from thy fragrant lap,
Pomegranates and the rich ananas pour.
But chiefly thou, Europa, seat of grace
And Christian excellence, his goodness own;
Forth from ten thousand temples pour his praise;
Clad in the armour of the living God,
Approach, unsheath the Spirit's flaming sword;
Faith's shield, salvation's glory-compassed helm,
With fortitude assume, and o'er your heart
Fair truth's invulnerable breast-plate spread;
Then join the general chorus of all worlds,
And let the sons of charity begin,
In strains seraphic and melodious prayer:
"O All-sufficient, All-beneficent!
Thou God of goodness and of glory, hear!
Thou who to lowest minds dost condescend,
Assuming passions to enforce thy laws,
Adopting jealousy to prove thy love!
Thou who resigned humility upholdest,
E'en as the florist props the drooping rose;
But quellest tyrannic pride with peerless power,
E'en as the tempest rives the stubborn oak!
O All-sufficient, All-beneficent!
Thou God of goodness and of glory, hear!
Bless all mankind, and bring them in the end
To heaven, to immortality, and Thee!"
SUBLIME invention, ever young,
Of vast conception, towering tongue,
To God the eternal theme;
Notes from your exaltations caught,
Unrivalled royalty of thought,
O'er meaner thoughts supreme.
His muse, bright angel of his verse,
Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce,
For all the pangs that rage:
Blest light, still gaining on the gloom,
The more than Michal of his bloom,
The Abishag of his age.
He sang of God, the mighty source
Of all things-that stupendous force
On which all strength depends;
From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes,
All period, power, and enterprise
Commences, reigns, and ends.
The world, the clustering spheres He made, The glorious light, the soothing shade,
Dale, champaign, grove, and hill;
The multitudinous abyss,
Where secrecy remains in bliss,
And wisdom hides her skill.
"Tell them I am," Jehovah said
To Moses, while earth heard in dread,
And, smitten to the heart,
At once above, beneath, around,
All nature, without voice or sound,
Replied, "O Lord! Thou art.”
JOHN LOGAN was born at Soutra, in Mid Lothian, in 1748. He was bred to the Scottish Church, and became one of the ministers of Leith. Disagreeing, however, with his congregation, he came to London, and supported himself by his pen. He died in the metropolis, in December, 1788.
Logan contributed many of the finest paraphrases to the Collection used in the Scottish Church. His poetry discovers great taste, and delicacy of sentiment, and a fervid imagination, and is written with much elegance.
FEW are thy days and full of woe,
O man, of woman born!
Thy doom is written, "Dust thou art,
And shalt to dust return."
Determined are the days that fly
Successive o'er thy head;
The numbered hour is on the wing,
That lays thee with the dead.
Alas! the little day of life
Is shorter than a span;
Yet black with thousand hidden ills
To miserable man.
Gay is thy morning; flattering hope
Thy sprightly step attends;
But soon the tempest howls behind,
And the dark night descends.
Before its splendid hour the cloud
Comes o'er the beam of light;
A pilgrim in a weary land,
Man tarries but a night.
|