THE VOICE OF THE SPIRIT.
The heart of man, in the hour of its pride,
Mild Nature, the teacher, address'd,
"Mid the flowers of the valley where fountains glide,
On the brow of the forest, the crest of the tide,
And the cliff of the mountain where tempests hide,
See, the hand of a God imprest."
Slow Reason arose, with her finite chain,
And her lamp as the moonbeam clear,
"If there's one who can bridle the storm-stricken main,
And gem the skies with yon countless train,
He 's a Being for man to fear."
Pure Inspiration's ray sublime
Like the sun from chaos broke,—
"Remember Him now, in the day of thy prime,
Thy breath is a vapour,—a span thy time,
And thy glory a wreath of smoke."—
Death hurl'd an arrow from the cloud
Where pestilence curtain'd his way,
On the throne of the heart its idol bow'd,
The bloom of its beauty was pale in the shroud,
And its strength the spoiler's prey.—
A voice was heard,—'t was the voice of the dead,—
It was hoarse from the hollow grave,—
"Give heed to the things of thy peace, it said,
Ere the worm is thy brother, and dust thy bed,
In the hour when none can save."
Remorse uplifted a serpent scourge,
Stern Conscience asserted her sway,—
But the world, and the host of its vanities urge,
And buoyed on the crest of their dancing surge,
That harden'd heart was gay.
Heaven mourn'd, and the harps of her blest ones sigh'd;
(As the rose sheds the dew-drop tear)—
"The Son of the Highest for man hath died.
Yet still he exults in his guilt and pride,
Ah! what shall arrest his career?”—
There was joy in heaven!—O'er the angels it shone,
A smile from Jehovah glow'd,—
The "still small voice" from the awful Throne
Had breathed on that obdurate heart of stone,
And the rock like a river flow'd.