"I will teach you by the hand of God."-JOB.
Oh! Word of wondrous import! hallow'd NAME
Of Essence secret, infinite!—the same—
All eye, all ear, all perfect-at whose nod
Creation boweth to its centre!-GOD!
Dread name! which sinners, yet, unaw'd, can hear,
And rev'rend-yet too little saints revere :
Oh! wondrous word for all of great, or good
Untold!-how erringly art thou constru❜d!
Delusion reigns-her banner wide unfurl'd,
And, lo! beneath it dreams a fever'd world,
While nameless phantasies, on ev'ry hand,
Uprise, obedient to her magic wand;
And on men dream, of all they wish should be,
And all they wildly wish presume they see.
Some see a God, that heeds not aught they do,
And fondly hope their visionings are true;
And some a God whose smiles, capricious, fall,
And some a God who smiles alike on all.
And some there are-(for them, oh! harp arise!
Awake and chase the phantom from their eyes!) 20
Who see a God that cares for, guides, controls,
And rules all worlds except the world of souls;
A God whose notice earth and ocean share,
And all things else, except a mortal's care
The turmoil, conflicts, sorrows, sins of life,
A chance wrought web of unregarded strife!
So dream they on till, vanish'd what has seem'd,
They see Him as He is, and find they dream'd.
Pride, Passion, Prejudice,-enchanters foul!
Deep have they drank of your Circean bowl;
And forms of priestcraft, superstition, lust,
Have seem'd to them "the wisdom of the just.”
But thou, Philosophy! that thou shouldst cheat,
That thou shouldst stoop to dignify deceit,
That thou shouldst turn thee, like a fretful child,
From sacred truth, by prejudice beguil'd;
Reject His light, and substitute thine own,
To make the INFINITE Creator known,—
That thou, obtruding a sufficeless ray,
Shouldst vex the midnight with the cry of "Day!" 40
How wilt thou dash the stigma from thy name,
Which marks thy knavery, or deplumes thy fame?
Truth, sweetly welling, proffers to thine eye.
The stream thou scornest to believe so nigh;
For who shall bend the idolizing knee,
That once hath tasted of that stream, to thee?
'Tis thou must bend-untyrannized till then,
The idol and the enemy of men;
Till then a Moloch with consuming arms
For all sweet hopes and sanative alarms;
Till then, tho' nature's secrets thou reveal,
Himself, the INFINITE, enshrouded still;
And tho' thou makest music in the spheres,
Thy notes of God discordant in His ears;—
Till then, tho' lovely, like a cloud at even,
Thy beauty fades as it approaches heaven.
The Priest of Nature! see him, self-ordain'd,
Nor ask his worship, if sincere, or feign'd,
For what avails the sacrifice, tho' real,
The heavens regardless, and the God ideal?
Sincere or not himself, his foll'wers lie
Launched on the perils of idolatry;
Of home, peace, refuge, heavenly hope bereft,
The simple truth for gorgeous falsehood left,
Had he been wise, or not assumed to be,
They had not ventured on that dismal sea;
Had never dreamt them of a God too great
To note the trifles of a mortal's fate,
A God too busy'd in His works to scan
The wants, the sorrows, and the sins of man;
A God too blest in empyrean light,
To pierce the darkness and be infinite!
And are they happy?-Whither shall they go
When sorrows deluge? To their guide? Ah! no:
He points them only to a hateful cure—
The grave and bids them patiently endure.
To God? "Twere folly in the last extreme
To think heaven's Majesty will stoop to them.
Not thus the simple pupil of the skies,
By truth led forth from "refuges of lies;"
His trust in God, his hope fast rooted there,
He hangs o'er billowy griefs without despair.
So, fearless, smiles the flow'ret from the verge
Of some high cliff, upon the rampant surge!
"Where is thy God?" the taunting scoffer cries;
Where thine is not, the suffering saint replies;
Present to help in trouble, and to bless
By what thou deem'st fortuitous distress,
And fruits of righteousness,' ere long, will prove
These woes were special messengers of love.
Behold all nature lovely to the eye!
A sun bright beaming and a spotless sky;
Beauty and plenty so pervade the scene,
"Twere hard to say if this or that were queen.
But, mark! all heaven blackens! and the form
Of nature shudders at the rising storm!
Her beauty withers at the lightning's flash,
Her music hushes at the thunder's crash:
Her charms-where are they? each enchantment dies
Beneath the horrors of the scowling skies!
But should I now, with atheistic lips,
Ask, 'where is God, to suffer this eclipse?
Where, thus to let the rude commotion jar
His own creation and her features mar?'
Wouldst thou not chide my ignorance, and say,
That God thus proved the wisdom of His sway?
Talk of the air, with fever in its breath,
Purg'd by the tempest from the gales of death?
Of ocean, else the parent of disease,—
The filth of nations brooding in its seas,-
Taught by the storm to bear upon its waves
The boon of health to ev'ry shore it laves?
Of blights prevented by the lightning's power?
Of harvests nourish'd by the genial shower?
Wouldst thou not point me, when the storm had fled,
To ev'ry flow'r that rear'd its beauteous head?
Bid me behold the gaily blushing fruit,
Freed from the worm that fed upon its root?
To catch the rising odours that pervade
The freshened verdure of the fragrant glade?
Then own the self-same spirit was abroad,
Alike when all was peace and when the tempest warr'd?
And canst thou, charg'd with reasonings so just,
Believe that trouble riseth from the dust?
And less comports with a benign decree
Than show'rs commission'd to refresh a tree?
Shall He who sends the raging tempest forth,
On mercy's errand to the peccant earth,
Without design, let sorrow's sting invade
Their happiness for whom the earth was made?
And hath "The only Wise" in all design'd
No moral good, no culture of the mind,
No virtuous seed more deeply planted here?
No vicious weed eradicated there?
No pride subdued? no haughtiness abased?
No soul enlightened? no delusion chased?
And doth the world's long catalogue of woe,
The errors, only, of its Ruler show?
Ah! hasty reas'ner! think thou, can it be?
Go, search the chronicle of woe and see!
Bears it the record of some heart of steel,
Which not the fiercest furnace could anneal?
Some mind whose chambers trouble could not reach,
Clos'd to the lessons sorrow came to teach?
Those lessons scorn'd, those warnings so refused,
At least have left the rebel inexcused,
And thus hath heaven vindicated still
The just procedure of its righteous will.
Or does the melancholy page disclose
Some victim, sunk beneath the weight of woes,
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