Poems (Pizey)/On Religion
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
POEMS.
ON RELIGION.
When Superstition's ensigns were unfurl'd,
And wav'd triumphant o'er the trembling world;;
When Murder rais'd her flaming sword on high,
Leagu'd with the beings of the nether sky;
When Persecution lighted up her fire,
And Malice and Revenge sent forth their ire;
When Death's pale horse rode rampant through the sky,
And the deep grave proclaim'd his victory;
Then, sweet Religion soar'd to heaven again,
Lest her white garments should imbibe a stain;
Justice and Mercy fled the human mind,
And dove-like Peace no resting place could find;
Fair Truth no longer could on earth reside;
But Pity, ling'ring still near those who died,
With hands uprais'd, and tearful speaking eye,
Implor'd stern Fortitude not yet to fly;
Whilst thou, sweet Spirit! bending from on high,
Beheld thy slaughter'd children bleeding lie:
Their guardian angel pass'd through heaven's gate,
Proclaim'd aloud their faith, and hapless fate;
And as he render'd human frailties in,
The tears of Mercy bleach'd the page of sin.
Th' avenging Spirit heard, and flew to tell,
While echoing notes with tenfold strength did swell,
How perish'd Latimer—how Cranmer fell!
Then, charg'd with secret mission from the height,
Back on the rolling clouds he wing'd his flight,
Nerv'd by just vengeance, drew his arrow'd bow,
And laid the bigot tyrant, Mary, low.
Angels of light their harps of gladness strung,
And through heav'ns vault the welcome tidings rung;
Pity and Truth return'd to earth again,
And lovely happiness reign'd o'er the plain;
Religion, Justice, Mercy, hand in hand,
Resum'd their empire o'er this favor'd land;
Content and Plenty rais'd the heart-felt smile,
And Peace once more illumin'd Britain's isle.
Now, mild Religion, thy sweet influence spread
With tenfold pow'r, while o'er the silent dead
Fond Mem'ry rais'd a bright and glorious tomb,
O'er which the martyr's olive long shall bloom:
Yes, sweet Religion! ages vet shall tell
How firm i faith thy sainted children fell.
Now, the white cottage rear'd its humble head,
No tyrant's pow'r its inmates had to dread,
Now, cheerful Industry could toil again,
She felt not poverty, she knew not pan
While sweet Content sat smiling at the door,
Cheering the labours of the happy poor;
And, when the sacred day of rest appear'd,
No bigot's eye the honest rustic fear'd,
But clean though homely, in their best attir'd,
The poor, with humble gratitude inspir'd,
Repair'd to thank their God for blessings given,
And favour and protection beg of heaven;
Now, without fear of ill, they gladly heard
The pious man who taught the sacred word:
Religion's precepts dwelt upon his tongue,
And truth persuasive on his accents hung;
He strew'd with sweetest flow'rs the way to heav'n,
And made the roughest paths of duty even;
Show'd the broad road of vice, beset by pain,
And quickly brought the wand'rer back again.
He led them on by reason's silver cord;
His frown was punishment—his smile, reward;
He made their cares, their sorrows, all his own,
He cherish'd Genius, where her seeds were sown,
And, cheer'd by him, neglected merit rose;
For, kind encouragement a warmth bestows,
Which makes all flow'rs of real worth expand,
And with their sweets repay the fostering hand.
Now, at the silent evening's gentle close,
While twilight soft her shadowy mantle throws;
Now, all around was peaceful, hush'd, and still,
Save the sweet note of mournful Philomel,
Or simple shepherd piping in the vale,
Telling to artless innocence his tale.
No trumpet now in dreadful echo roll'd,
No noisy drum the victim's knell now told,
Nor clashing sword, bath'd deep in crimson core,
Drove the poor rustic from his cottage door,
To seek a shelter in some distant land,
From Superstition's persecuting baud.
No dread of woes to come obscur'd his brow,
Reckless of grief he sat unheeding now,
Whistling at case, or singing blythe and free,
Surrounded by his happy family.
Now, sweet Religion, here thy beauties shone,
Free, unrestrain'd, with lustre all thine own!
Of all the gifts with which frail man is blest,
Thou art the first—friend of the good distrest,
Soother of sorrow's deep contracted brow,
And soft'ner of man's trials here below!
Ah! who can paint the bliss thou dost impart!
Or who can tell the riches of that heart
Where thou, sweet heav'nly Spirit, hold'st thy reign,
Guiding unseen life's interwoven chain
Of good and ill, healing the wounded mind,
Extracting Grief's slow poison, thou dost bind
With balm of cheering hope the throbbing wound,
And guard'st from dark despair the heart to sorrow doom'd.
Let those who scorn thy truths, thy power deny,
Watch round the good man's bed when death is nigh,
And there behold how bright thy beauties shine,
And mark how calmly he can life resign:
Sustain'd by thee, how patiently can bear
The pang which tells him that his end is near.
See, how compos'd he waits th' approach of death,
And comfort speaks e'en with his latest breath
To those he soon must leave o'erwhelm'd in grief;
He tells them where alone to seek relief;—
Points with uplifted finger to the skies,
And proves that there his stedfast hope now lies.
See, how the radiant smile illumes his brow!
Ah! mark the charms of sweet Religion now!
Ye daring few, who all her laws defy,
Behold, how calmly the good man can die,
And own, of all the bliss to mortals given
Religion is the dearest gift of Heav'n:
How far she lifts the soul from this vain world!
And, when to misery's dominion hurl'd
By sorrow's iron hand with cruel skill,
How does she raise the hopes it sought to kill!
She drives th' unfeeling monster from its throne,
And makes the wounded feeble heart her own.
Go, doubting man, turn from this blissful scene,
And visit him who calls Religion mean,
Her light too dim, her hopes too low for man,
Who will deny the truths he dares not scan:
His actions dark, his heart by sin enthrall'd,
He seeks his guilty pleasures in the world;
And laws to him would prove a galling chain:
Go, sec him stretch'd upon the bed of pain!
See how impatiently he raving lies,
Cursing the hours he thus must sacrifice;
And, when he feels his strength is waning fast,
And thinks perhaps this night may be his last,
Then see in what a trembling wretched state
He waits the dreadful summons of his fate!
Mark, when he knows all earthly hope is lost,
On what a troubled sea his soul is tost!—
No pilot now appears to guide his course—
No anchor left to stem the torrent's force!
Shuddering with pain of body and of mind,
He seeks in vain some kind relief to find;
He feels the shatter'd vessel sinking fast,
And owns, deluded man, the truth at last!
In vain his pious friend with pitying care
Tries to compose his mind by earnest prayer:
Trembling at truths he dares not now deny,
With what despair he rolls his languid eye!
Heart-rending sighs now waste his feeble breath
And thus the wretched atheist meets his death!
We know not if another day will come,
Nor vet how soon we slumber in the tomb.
E'en now the destroying angel is abroad,
And holds unsheath'd th' exterminating sword:
He waits unseen in every path we tread,
And hovering watches e'en around our bed:
He mingles poison with our daily food,
Nor spares the rich, or poor, or had, or good.
Mortals, be wise—Religion's counsels hear;
They can divest the tyrant Death of fear,
Teach us to wait s sure approach resign'd,
And part from life with fortitude of mind.
And wav'd triumphant o'er the trembling world;;
When Murder rais'd her flaming sword on high,
Leagu'd with the beings of the nether sky;
When Persecution lighted up her fire,
And Malice and Revenge sent forth their ire;
When Death's pale horse rode rampant through the sky,
And the deep grave proclaim'd his victory;
Then, sweet Religion soar'd to heaven again,
Lest her white garments should imbibe a stain;
Justice and Mercy fled the human mind,
And dove-like Peace no resting place could find;
Fair Truth no longer could on earth reside;
But Pity, ling'ring still near those who died,
With hands uprais'd, and tearful speaking eye,
Implor'd stern Fortitude not yet to fly;
Whilst thou, sweet Spirit! bending from on high,
Beheld thy slaughter'd children bleeding lie:
Their guardian angel pass'd through heaven's gate,
Proclaim'd aloud their faith, and hapless fate;
And as he render'd human frailties in,
The tears of Mercy bleach'd the page of sin.
Th' avenging Spirit heard, and flew to tell,
While echoing notes with tenfold strength did swell,
How perish'd Latimer—how Cranmer fell!
Then, charg'd with secret mission from the height,
Back on the rolling clouds he wing'd his flight,
Nerv'd by just vengeance, drew his arrow'd bow,
And laid the bigot tyrant, Mary, low.
Angels of light their harps of gladness strung,
And through heav'ns vault the welcome tidings rung;
Pity and Truth return'd to earth again,
And lovely happiness reign'd o'er the plain;
Religion, Justice, Mercy, hand in hand,
Resum'd their empire o'er this favor'd land;
Content and Plenty rais'd the heart-felt smile,
And Peace once more illumin'd Britain's isle.
Now, mild Religion, thy sweet influence spread
With tenfold pow'r, while o'er the silent dead
Fond Mem'ry rais'd a bright and glorious tomb,
O'er which the martyr's olive long shall bloom:
Yes, sweet Religion! ages vet shall tell
How firm i faith thy sainted children fell.
Now, the white cottage rear'd its humble head,
No tyrant's pow'r its inmates had to dread,
Now, cheerful Industry could toil again,
She felt not poverty, she knew not pan
While sweet Content sat smiling at the door,
Cheering the labours of the happy poor;
And, when the sacred day of rest appear'd,
No bigot's eye the honest rustic fear'd,
But clean though homely, in their best attir'd,
The poor, with humble gratitude inspir'd,
Repair'd to thank their God for blessings given,
And favour and protection beg of heaven;
Now, without fear of ill, they gladly heard
The pious man who taught the sacred word:
Religion's precepts dwelt upon his tongue,
And truth persuasive on his accents hung;
He strew'd with sweetest flow'rs the way to heav'n,
And made the roughest paths of duty even;
Show'd the broad road of vice, beset by pain,
And quickly brought the wand'rer back again.
He led them on by reason's silver cord;
His frown was punishment—his smile, reward;
He made their cares, their sorrows, all his own,
He cherish'd Genius, where her seeds were sown,
And, cheer'd by him, neglected merit rose;
For, kind encouragement a warmth bestows,
Which makes all flow'rs of real worth expand,
And with their sweets repay the fostering hand.
Now, at the silent evening's gentle close,
While twilight soft her shadowy mantle throws;
Now, all around was peaceful, hush'd, and still,
Save the sweet note of mournful Philomel,
Or simple shepherd piping in the vale,
Telling to artless innocence his tale.
No trumpet now in dreadful echo roll'd,
No noisy drum the victim's knell now told,
Nor clashing sword, bath'd deep in crimson core,
Drove the poor rustic from his cottage door,
To seek a shelter in some distant land,
From Superstition's persecuting baud.
No dread of woes to come obscur'd his brow,
Reckless of grief he sat unheeding now,
Whistling at case, or singing blythe and free,
Surrounded by his happy family.
Now, sweet Religion, here thy beauties shone,
Free, unrestrain'd, with lustre all thine own!
Of all the gifts with which frail man is blest,
Thou art the first—friend of the good distrest,
Soother of sorrow's deep contracted brow,
And soft'ner of man's trials here below!
Ah! who can paint the bliss thou dost impart!
Or who can tell the riches of that heart
Where thou, sweet heav'nly Spirit, hold'st thy reign,
Guiding unseen life's interwoven chain
Of good and ill, healing the wounded mind,
Extracting Grief's slow poison, thou dost bind
With balm of cheering hope the throbbing wound,
And guard'st from dark despair the heart to sorrow doom'd.
Let those who scorn thy truths, thy power deny,
Watch round the good man's bed when death is nigh,
And there behold how bright thy beauties shine,
And mark how calmly he can life resign:
Sustain'd by thee, how patiently can bear
The pang which tells him that his end is near.
See, how compos'd he waits th' approach of death,
And comfort speaks e'en with his latest breath
To those he soon must leave o'erwhelm'd in grief;
He tells them where alone to seek relief;—
Points with uplifted finger to the skies,
And proves that there his stedfast hope now lies.
See, how the radiant smile illumes his brow!
Ah! mark the charms of sweet Religion now!
Ye daring few, who all her laws defy,
Behold, how calmly the good man can die,
And own, of all the bliss to mortals given
Religion is the dearest gift of Heav'n:
How far she lifts the soul from this vain world!
And, when to misery's dominion hurl'd
By sorrow's iron hand with cruel skill,
How does she raise the hopes it sought to kill!
She drives th' unfeeling monster from its throne,
And makes the wounded feeble heart her own.
Go, doubting man, turn from this blissful scene,
And visit him who calls Religion mean,
Her light too dim, her hopes too low for man,
Who will deny the truths he dares not scan:
His actions dark, his heart by sin enthrall'd,
He seeks his guilty pleasures in the world;
And laws to him would prove a galling chain:
Go, sec him stretch'd upon the bed of pain!
See how impatiently he raving lies,
Cursing the hours he thus must sacrifice;
And, when he feels his strength is waning fast,
And thinks perhaps this night may be his last,
Then see in what a trembling wretched state
He waits the dreadful summons of his fate!
Mark, when he knows all earthly hope is lost,
On what a troubled sea his soul is tost!—
No pilot now appears to guide his course—
No anchor left to stem the torrent's force!
Shuddering with pain of body and of mind,
He seeks in vain some kind relief to find;
He feels the shatter'd vessel sinking fast,
And owns, deluded man, the truth at last!
In vain his pious friend with pitying care
Tries to compose his mind by earnest prayer:
Trembling at truths he dares not now deny,
With what despair he rolls his languid eye!
Heart-rending sighs now waste his feeble breath
And thus the wretched atheist meets his death!
We know not if another day will come,
Nor vet how soon we slumber in the tomb.
E'en now the destroying angel is abroad,
And holds unsheath'd th' exterminating sword:
He waits unseen in every path we tread,
And hovering watches e'en around our bed:
He mingles poison with our daily food,
Nor spares the rich, or poor, or had, or good.
Mortals, be wise—Religion's counsels hear;
They can divest the tyrant Death of fear,
Teach us to wait s sure approach resign'd,
And part from life with fortitude of mind.