Classic Poem

But, O immortals! What had I to plead
When death stood o'er me with his threat'ning lance,
When reason left me in the time of need,
And sense was lost in terror or in trance?
My sick'ning soul was with my blood inflamed,
And the celestial image sunk, defaced and maimed.

I sent back memory, in heedful guise,
To search the records of preceding years;
Home, like the raven to the ark, she flies,
Croaking bad tidings to my trembling ears.
O sun, again that thy retreat was made,
And threw my follies back into the friendly shade!

But who are they, that bid affliction cease?--
Redemption and forgiveness, heavenly sounds!
Behold the dove that brings the branch of peace,
Behold the balm that heals the gaping wounds--
Vengeance divine's by penitence suppressed--
She struggles with the angel, conquers, and is blessed.

Yet hold, presumption, nor too fondly climb,
And thou too hold, O horrible despair!
In man humility's alone sublime,
Who diffidently hopes he's Christ's own care--
O all-sufficient Lamb! in death's dread hour
Thy merits who shall slight, or who can doubt thy power?

But soul-rejoicing health again returns,
The blood meanders gently in each vein,
The lamp of life renewed with vigour burns,
And exiled reason takes her seat again--
Brisk leaps the heart, the mind's at large once more,
To love, to praise, to bless, to wonder and adore.

The virtuous partner of my nuptial bands
Appeared a widow to my frantic sight;
My little prattlers, lifting up their hands,
Beckon me back to them, to life, and light;
I come, ye spotless sweets! I come again,
Nor have your tears been shed, nor have ye knelt in vain.

All glory to th' Eternal, to th' Immense,
All glory to th' Omniscient and Good,
Whose power's uncircumscribed, whose love's intense;
But yet whose justice ne'er could be withstood,
Except through him--through him, who stands alone,
Of worth, of weight allowed for all mankind t' atone!

He raised the lame, the lepers he made whole,
He fixed the palsied nerves of weak decay,
He drove out Satan from the tortured soul,
And to the blind gave or restored the day,--
Nay more,--far more, unequalled pangs sustained,
Till his lost fallen flock his taintless blood regained.

My feeble feet refused my body's weight,
Nor would my eyes admit the glorious light,
My nerves convulsed shook fearful of their fate,
My mind lay open to the powers of night.
He pitying did a second birth bestow,
A birth of joy--not like the first of tears and woe.