"WHO HATH BELIEVED OUR REPORT?"
Isaiah liii. 1.
"Who hath believed our report?"
The agonizing prophet cried; Where do the wandering tribes resort, For whom the King of Glory died?
His goodness doth before them pass, The fairest of ten thousand He, Yet sin bewilders, and alas, In Him they can no beauty see.
His Kingly presence they deny, While round their altars they resort, Well might the grieved prophet cry, "Who hath believed our report?"
"Away with such a one," they cry, "Let timbrels sound, and damsels sing, This strange impostor crucify, For none but Caesar is our King!"
Slain in the streets the martyrs lie, Who strove His kingdom to support, Well might the trembling prophet cry, "Who hath believed our report?"
His ministers to make Him known, Their time, and strength, and souls devote, Yet oft in sorrow cry alone, "Who hath believed our report?"
All we like sheep have gone astray, From Him we have our faces hid, We each have turn'd to his own way, And done the things that were forbid.
His faithful servants all day long, Do to repentance us exhort, Yet nightly raise the mournful song, "Who hath believed our report?"
It was for us He was accused, Sank under sorrows not His own, Was buffeted, chastis'd, and bruis'd, To raise us rebels to a throne.
The nails, the hammer, and the spear, And reed, with which His head was smote, All cry in the deaf sinner's ear, "Who hath believed our report?"
Yes! both the pulpit and the press, The thunder of His power proclaim, Commend His blood and righteousness, And offer mercy in His name.
Yet some are always standing by, Of holy things to make a sport, And weeping preachers yet may cry, "Who hath believed our report?"
Some have believed this report,- To them He hath "His arm reveal'd;"
To Him their lives they now devote, For "by His stripes their souls are heal'd!"
And on the last important day, When all shall be to judgment brought, Thrice happy those who then can say, We have believed this report.
But woe to all ungodly men, Who wonder how these things can be; They'll wonder more, and perish then,- Too late they will their folly see.
For them, alas, no joys remain, The Lord of life will cut them short; And they shall weep and wish in vain, They had believed our report!
THE BEES
The Sun throws his ray on the lake, The vessels are scudding along; Before half the city's awake, The air is all action and song!
The Bees haste away to the moors, And eager their task to complete, Extract from the bells of the flowers, Their delicate essences sweet.
All cheerful they hurry along, Their storehouse of food to increase, Till Death puts an end to their song, The citizen's table to grace.
Though few can their weapons withstand, Or few can their forces defeat, Yet Death with a torch at command, Soon makes the wing'd armies retreat.
At once their anxiety droops, In the grave they lie silent and still, While strangers are draining the cup, They made such exertions to fill.
O may I be bold as the Bee, In work of a similar cast, So faithful, industrious, and free, And labour, and sing to the last!
CAUTION FROM LIMBER HILL.
(_Occasioned by a fall during a frost._)
'Twas a bit gone December, As I well remember, I met with a rubber, and got some advice; What harbour to rest in, What Friend to put trust in, And how we may walk with slape shoes upon ice!
In coming down Limber, Among the young timber, My foot slipt, and falling, it was a take in, The night being darkish, And we a bit larkish, Instead of a broom bush, I grasped a whin!
When my fingers were bleeding, And pain was succeeding, It set me a thinking,-of that you'll not doubt; And but for the blunder, Which lessen'd the wonder, I else had been punish'd enough to sing out!
My views being muddy, I quickly did study, What things upon earth to compare with this whin; After walking around 'em, I very soon found 'em To be a false friend, or the pleasures of sin!
A true Friend is precious, His favour's delicious, He'll give you a lift, when he sees you break down; In conflicts distressing, You'll find him a blessing, He'll mark your oppressions, and call them his own!
But a false Friend will vary, And vow quite contrary, His heart to your grief will be hard as a stone; In sorrow or sickness, He'll pity your weakness, But only plant under your pillow a thorn!
While your money is chinking, He'll answer you winking, He'll "_Master_," and "_Sir_" you, and come at your call; But give him a pincher, You'll find him a flincher, Instead of a lift, he will fling you a fall!
So sin is deceiving, Bewitching, bereaving; 'Twill pierce through the heart, and invite you to sing; 'Twill put on fair faces, To woo your embraces, But after you've grasp'd it, there follows a sting!
THE VILLAGE CHURCH IN RUINS!
(_A decayed Church, a faithful Minister, a Gospel Sermon, a cold wind, a rainy day, and ten hearers!_)
Alas, for our mother, whom age hath o'ertaken, Her champions are sleeping beneath the cold sod; She seems both by lover and friend quite forsaken, Her total dependance is now on her God!
By tribute to Caesar her battlements crumble, Her grey headed Elders may weep in despair; Her once lovely fabric's now ready to tumble, While no one arises her breach to repair!
Alas, for the spot where our ancestors bended, In humble devotion, and brotherly love, Where early petitions like incense ascended, And blessings in answer came down from above.
Alas, for that spot where our tribes did assemble, In youthful succession, both healthy and gay, Which then did the Temple of Zion resemble,- But briers and thorns have now choked up the way.
The voice of her Elders in prayer seems to falter, And her bells ring dolefully over her dead, Her priest may lament from the porch to the altar, Her pews are deserted, her virgins are fled.