Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,
And poured upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word;
This was the lesson to her son,
-Time is Eternity begun:
Behold that mother's love.
Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear of God:
Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin Eternity in time,
Taught by that mother's love.
That mother's love!-how sweet the name!
What was that mother's love?
--The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,
That kindles from above
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as earth can hold,
Nor through Eternity grows cold;
This was that mother's love.
WHO is He, so swiftly flying,
His career no eye can see?
Who are They, so early dying,
From their birth they cease to be?
Time-behold his pictured face!
Moments:-can you count their race?
Though, with aspect deep-dissembling,
Here he feigns unconscious sleep,
Round and round this circle trembling,
Day and night his symbols creep,
While, unseen, through earth and sky,
His unwearying pinions ply.
Hark! what pretty pulses, beating,
Spring new moments into light;
Every pulse, its stroke repeating,
Sends its moment back to night;
Yet not one of all the train
Comes uncalled, or flits in vain.
In the highest realms of glory,
Spirits trace, before the throne,
On eternal scrolls, the story
Of each little moment flown;
Every deed, and word, and thought,
Through the whole creation wrought.
Were the volume of a minute
Thus to mortal sight unrolled,
More of sin and sorrow in it,
More of man, might we behold,
Than on history's broadest page
In the reliques of an age.
Who could bear the revelation?
Who abide the sudden test?
-With instinctive consternation
Hands would cover every breast,
Loudest tongues at once be hushed,
Pride in all its writhings crushed.
Who, with leer malign exploring,
On his neighbour's shame durst look?
Would not each, intensely poring
On that record in the book,
Which his inmost soul revealed,
Wish its leaves for ever sealed?
Sealed they are for years, and ages,
Till, the earth's last circuit run,
Empire changed through all its stages,
Risen and set the latest sun,—
On the sea and on the land
Shall a midnight angel stand;
Stand, and, while the abysses tremble,
Swear that time shall be no more:
Quick and dead shall then assemble,
Men and demons range before
That tremendous judgment seat,
Where both worlds at issue meet.
Time himself, with all his legions,
Days, months, years, since nature's birth, Shall revive, and from all regions
Singling out the sons of earth,
With their glory or disgrace,
Charge their spenders face to face.
Every moment of my being
Then shall pass before mine eyes:
-God, all searching! God, all seeing!
Oh! appease them, ere they rise;
Warned, I fly, I fly to Thee:
God, be merciful to me!
Was born at Nottingham, A.D. 1785. His parents were in humble circumstances, but from his earliest years he showed an ardent passion for literature, and decided aversion to trade. By the kindness of Mr. Wilberforce and the Rev. Charles Simeon, he was enabled to enter the University of Cambridge, where his too great devotion to study brought on a disease that proved fatal, A.D. 1806. Kirke White's poems contain much promise of future excellency, and are valuable as the outpourings of a noble and virtuous mind.
A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.
O LORD! another day is flown,
And we, a lonely band,
Are met once more before Thy throne,
To bless Thy fostering hand.
And wilt Thou bend a listening ear,
To praises low as ours?
Thou wilt! for Thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.
And, Jesus, Thou Thy smiles will deign,
As we before Thee pray:
For Thou didst bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.
Oh! let Thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;
And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!
Thus chastened, cleansed, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;
The Sun of Holiness shall shine,
In glory on our head.
And Thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And Thou wilt bless our way;
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.
Concluding Stanzas, written shortly before his Death.
THUS far have I pursued my solemn theme,
With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem
The lyre which I in early days have strung;
And now my spirits faint, and I have hung
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,
On the dark cypress; and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er,
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard no more.
And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate the lay?
O Thou who visitest the sons of men,
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, One little space prolong my mournful day; One little lapse suspend thy last decree!
I am a youthful traveller in the way,
And this slight boon would consecrate to Thee,
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.
THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG.
THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.
The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low:
Come, let us sit and weave a song—
A melancholy song!
Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm,
That marks thy mournful reign.
I've passed here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've passed here many a lonely year,
A solitary man.
And I have lingered in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and
Have knelt before my wicker door,
To sing my evening song.
And I have hailed the gray morn high
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed
To hymns of harmony.
But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore
I hailed thy star-beam mild.
The day-spring brings not joy to me;
The moon it whispers not of peace!
But, oh! when darkness robes the heavens,
My woes are mixed with joy.
And then I talk, and often think
Aërial voices answer me;
And oh! I am not then alone-
A solitary man.
And when the blustering winter winds
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,
I lay me on my lonely mat,
And pleasant are my dreams.
And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.
Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear
The same dull sounds again.
The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea,
The whispering of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft
The condor's hollow scream.
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