Poems (Hornblower)/Lines, suggested by a Religious Lecture
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LINES,
SUGGESTED BY A RELIGIOUS LECTURE.
In every age, in every various clime,
From the first day that marked the race of time,
With different aspect, colour, powers, and mind,
One faith, one hope has yet aroused mankind,
Poured its blest beams amid the deepest night,
And waked even savage bosoms to delight.—
One hope, one faith, that an all-powerful care
Called forth a world so beautiful and fair,
That one great Spirit o'er its frame presides,
Watches its changes, and its motion guides.
The untutored Indian hears him in the storm,
And in the cloud careering, seeks his form;
In the wild waving of the woods at even,
To him the breeze seems whispering of Heaven;
And though invisible and far He be,
He reads his Maker marked on every tree.
How gains he thus, amid that darkest lot,
A knowledge wealth of worlds may equal not;
That, even ignorant of nature's laws,
He yet ascends unto the first great Cause;
And, dark in all the mysteries of earth,
Yet rises conscious of a heavenly birth?
Is it tradition that thus guides him time,
And reads creation to his wondering view;
Or, with instinctive knowledge, does he soar
Above all lesser works, and God adore?
Oh! not tradition—for time's whelming flood
Has swept away the beautiful and good,
The wealth of nations, sciences, and art,
All that of life hath formed the noblest part,
Discoveries, changes, and improvement's tide,
And man too often o'er the wreck hath sighed;
Nor instinct—for a loftier reason gives
The sacred hope, in every breast that lives.—
Ask the poor savage why he trusts a God?
The Arab cries, My camel's steps have trod
In desert sands, and left their traces there;
I trace my steed even in that empty air;
And thus, in all around and all above,
I see a mighty spirit work and move!
'T is in his works that thus our Maker lives;
The simple reason that the Arab gives,
Becomes to us the inference of the heart:
Creation breathes of love in every part.—
Before the voice divine was heard from heaven,
This preparation was in mercy given;
The mind was taught, for truth more deep and high,
To read in nature the Divinity;
And, having learnt the holy lessons there,
To turn to pages more divinely fair.
How reads she those? the beauteous world around,
Does it not answer the inspiring sound,
Confirm the tidings of the angelic voice,
For "God is good"—does it not cry "Rejoice!"
Exemplify and prove, in every part,
The purest wisdom and the nicest art?
God's tender mercies are o'er all, 't is said,
We look, and lo! the little ravens fed!
The hen is gathering softly o'er her brood,
The meanest thing that crawls has air and food,
A wondrous frame and an Almighty care,
Those tender mercies—they are everywhere!
Lord of all power and might, the Scriptures call
The great presiding Spirit over all;
But far more awfully that power is told,
The living fires of Heaven when we behold,
See the dark clouds encompassing our day,
And hear the tempest rushing on its way;
While desolation covers all the land,
We own the works of an Almighty hand,
And in the beauty that the wreck survives,
We feel the love that shields our fragile lives.
Then let not superstition turn away
The votary of nature from her sway,
With gloomy doubts, and dark, erroneous fears,
Obscure the heavenly impress that she wears,
Or think that revelation can inspire
One holy feeling, or one high desire,
But nature breathes into the soul a bliss,
That may confirm and deepen even this.
From the first day that marked the race of time,
With different aspect, colour, powers, and mind,
One faith, one hope has yet aroused mankind,
Poured its blest beams amid the deepest night,
And waked even savage bosoms to delight.—
One hope, one faith, that an all-powerful care
Called forth a world so beautiful and fair,
That one great Spirit o'er its frame presides,
Watches its changes, and its motion guides.
The untutored Indian hears him in the storm,
And in the cloud careering, seeks his form;
In the wild waving of the woods at even,
To him the breeze seems whispering of Heaven;
And though invisible and far He be,
He reads his Maker marked on every tree.
How gains he thus, amid that darkest lot,
A knowledge wealth of worlds may equal not;
That, even ignorant of nature's laws,
He yet ascends unto the first great Cause;
And, dark in all the mysteries of earth,
Yet rises conscious of a heavenly birth?
Is it tradition that thus guides him time,
And reads creation to his wondering view;
Or, with instinctive knowledge, does he soar
Above all lesser works, and God adore?
Oh! not tradition—for time's whelming flood
Has swept away the beautiful and good,
The wealth of nations, sciences, and art,
All that of life hath formed the noblest part,
Discoveries, changes, and improvement's tide,
And man too often o'er the wreck hath sighed;
Nor instinct—for a loftier reason gives
The sacred hope, in every breast that lives.—
Ask the poor savage why he trusts a God?
The Arab cries, My camel's steps have trod
In desert sands, and left their traces there;
I trace my steed even in that empty air;
And thus, in all around and all above,
I see a mighty spirit work and move!
'T is in his works that thus our Maker lives;
The simple reason that the Arab gives,
Becomes to us the inference of the heart:
Creation breathes of love in every part.—
Before the voice divine was heard from heaven,
This preparation was in mercy given;
The mind was taught, for truth more deep and high,
To read in nature the Divinity;
And, having learnt the holy lessons there,
To turn to pages more divinely fair.
How reads she those? the beauteous world around,
Does it not answer the inspiring sound,
Confirm the tidings of the angelic voice,
For "God is good"—does it not cry "Rejoice!"
Exemplify and prove, in every part,
The purest wisdom and the nicest art?
God's tender mercies are o'er all, 't is said,
We look, and lo! the little ravens fed!
The hen is gathering softly o'er her brood,
The meanest thing that crawls has air and food,
A wondrous frame and an Almighty care,
Those tender mercies—they are everywhere!
Lord of all power and might, the Scriptures call
The great presiding Spirit over all;
But far more awfully that power is told,
The living fires of Heaven when we behold,
See the dark clouds encompassing our day,
And hear the tempest rushing on its way;
While desolation covers all the land,
We own the works of an Almighty hand,
And in the beauty that the wreck survives,
We feel the love that shields our fragile lives.
Then let not superstition turn away
The votary of nature from her sway,
With gloomy doubts, and dark, erroneous fears,
Obscure the heavenly impress that she wears,
Or think that revelation can inspire
One holy feeling, or one high desire,
But nature breathes into the soul a bliss,
That may confirm and deepen even this.