The temple of the Cherubim, The House of God is cold and dim; A curse is on its trembling walls, Its mighty veil asunder falls!
Well may the cavern-depths of Earth Be shaken, and her mountains nod; Well may the sheeted dead come forth To see the suffering son of God!
Well may the temple-shrine grow dim, And shadows veil the Cherubim, When He, the chosen one of Heaven, A sacrifice for guilt is given!
And shall the sinful heart, alone, Behold unmoved the fearful hour, When Nature trembled on her throne, And Death resigned his iron power?
Oh, shall the heart--whose sinfulness Gave keenness to His sore distress, And added to His tears of blood-- Refuse its trembling gratitude!
1834.
PALESTINE
Blest land of Judaea! thrice hallowed of song, Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee.
With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before; With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod Made bright by the steps of the angels of God.
Blue sea of the hills! in my spirit I hear Thy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear; Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown.
Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green, And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene; And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee!
Hark, a sound in the valley! where, swollen and strong, Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along; Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain.
There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, And Naphthali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame, And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on, For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son!
There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang, When the princes of Issachar stood by her side, And the shout of a host in its triumph replied.
Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, With the mountains around, and the valleys between; There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there The song of the angels rose sweet on the air.
And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw Their shadows at noon on the ruins below; But where are the sisters who hastened to greet The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet?
I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod; I stand where they stood with the chosen of God-- Where His blessing was heard and His lessons were taught, Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.
Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came; These hills He toiled over in grief are the same; The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow!
And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet; For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone, And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.
But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode Of Humanity clothed in the brightness of God?
Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him!
Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, In love and in meekness, He moved among men; And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!
And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which he bowed Him to bear, Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer.
Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here; And the voice of Thy love is the same even now As at Bethany's tomb or on Olivet's brow.
Oh, the outward hath gone! but in glory and power.
The spirit surviveth the things of an hour; Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame On the heart's secret altar is burning the same
1837.
HYMNS.
FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE
I.
"Encore un hymne, O ma lyre Un hymn pour le Seigneur, Un hymne dans mon delire, Un hymne dans mon bonheur."
One hymn more, O my lyre!
Praise to the God above, Of joy and life and love, Sweeping its strings of fire!
Oh, who the speed of bird and wind And sunbeam's glance will lend to me, That, soaring upward, I may find My resting-place and home in Thee?
Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom, Adoreth with a fervent flame,-- Mysterious spirit! unto whom Pertain nor sign nor name!
Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go, Up from the cold and joyless earth, Back to the God who bade them flow, Whose moving spirit sent them forth.
But as for me, O God! for me, The lowly creature of Thy will, Lingering and sad, I sigh to Thee, An earth-bound pilgrim still!
Was not my spirit born to shine Where yonder stars and suns are glowing?
To breathe with them the light divine From God's own holy altar flowing?
To be, indeed, whate'er the soul In dreams hath thirsted for so long,-- A portion of heaven's glorious whole Of loveliness and song?
Oh, watchers of the stars at night, Who breathe their fire, as we the air,-- Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, Oh, say, is He, the Eternal, there?
Bend there around His awful throne The seraph's glance, the angel's knee?
Or are thy inmost depths His own, O wild and mighty sea?
Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go!
Swift as the eagle's glance of fire, Or arrows from the archer's bow, To the far aim of your desire!
Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, Like spring-doves from the startled wood, Bearing like them your sacrifice Of music unto God!
And shall these thoughts of joy and love Come back again no more to me?
Returning like the patriarch's dove Wing-weary from the eternal sea, To bear within my longing arms The promise-bough of kindlier skies, Plucked from the green, immortal palms Which shadow Paradise?
All-moving spirit! freely forth At Thy command the strong wind goes Its errand to the passive earth, Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, Until it folds its weary wing Once more within the hand divine; So, weary from its wandering, My spirit turns to Thine!
Child of the sea, the mountain stream, From its dark caverns, hurries on, Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam, By evening's star and noontide's sun, Until at last it sinks to rest, O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, And moans upon its mother's breast,-- So turns my soul to Thee!
O Thou who bidst the torrent flow, Who lendest wings unto the wind,-- Mover of all things! where art Thou?
Oh, whither shall I go to find The secret of Thy resting-place?
Is there no holy wing for me, That, soaring, I may search the space Of highest heaven for Thee?