THE PURITAN. No. 13. THE WOUNDED SPIRIT. Πέτομαι δ' ἐλπίσιν, Οὔτ ̓ ἐνθάδ' ὁρῶν, ἔτ ̓ ὀπίσω. Sophoclis Oldipus Tyrannus. Line 488. THE following poem was prepared to be delivered before a society in College many years ago. It is founded on a story which has been told of several persons, of two skeptics agreeing that whichever of them should die first, should appear to his surviving friend to bear ocular testimony to the existence of the future world. Whether such a wild agreement was ever made, I know not. The object of the poem is to enforce the truth of Christianity, from the wants, sorrows, and sins of man. The story is merely assumed for poetic effect. Morbid misanthropy and snarly infidelity, having lately been brought into vogue by some popular writers, I wished to turn them to some account. I have therefore represented a troubled infidel going into the grave yard, at midnight, to meet the ghost of his friend according to appointment; and there, though disappointed of the expected witness, led by reflection to believe in his Saviour and his God. Perhaps the severest and most candid criticism that ought to be passed on my piece, is, that it is College poetry. THRONGED by a host of doubts, the mind distrest Though Fancy cheat us with her youthful train, 'Tis night; and sullen darkness' solemn robe Here will I muse, till from her secret throne, This is the hour; and on this grassy side, Along the brink of flowery joy we steered, Believed and doubted, rioted and feared. At length, in all his bloom, when youthful pride To warn my friend, my spirit shall return. This is the spot, and time; I come to tread These walks, and meet alone the enlightened dead. He was my friend-I need not flinch or fear; In friendship's band—the dead—the dead are dear ; No, not a hair of this sad head, would he Injure, for kind were all his ways to me; I fear not-I am calm-I long to know Of worlds as yet unknown—of joy and wo. The hour has come, from yonder steeple's height, Yet not alone, if vows in Heaven are heard, Hark! Did a voice my listening organs seize? Is that a shroud that yonder stands alone? What change is here! What dreadful silence reigns Along these moonlight walks and glimmering plains! To his last mansion Rectitude is fled, And sleeps with Falsehood in a wormy bed; Pleasure has dashed her goblet down; and Pride Why is a terror, so peculiar, shed O'er human hearts when walking near the dead? How can these mouldered hands such tumults weave? Why do the disbelieving now believe? And why, as if by Heaven's judicial doom, Is no man atheist, standing near a tomb? He comes not, tho' the appointed hour is o'er ; He comes not-lives not-I shall wait no more. Long have I forced these trembling limbs to stay, Midst damps and silence, darkness and dismay; The moon in lustre mild, in glory still, Shines westward of the brow of Heaven's blue hill. My doubts are all confirmed; when breath retires, The lamp within goes out with all its fires; Soon as we reach these beds of lasting peace, Our schemes, our hopes, our very beings cease. This boasted man-this child of Heaven's decreeThis sage-this reasoning angel-what is he? A future worm-the victim of a shroud, A streak of glory fading from a cloud. If ONE all-perfect garnished yonder skies, What is the truth? Does pleasure harbor fear? Does wisdom waking happiness appear? Nature, as onward through her laws, she moves, To all her progeny a step-dame proves; |