I send it through the boundless vault of stars!
The stars, though rich, what dross their gold to thee,
Great, good, wise, wonderful, eternal King!
If to those conscious stars thy throne around,
Praise ever-pouring, and imbibing bliss ;
And ask their strain; they want it, more they want,
Poor their abundance, humble their sublime,
Languid their energy, their ardour cold,
Indebted still, their highest rapture burns;
Short of its mark, defective, though divine.
Still more—this theme is man's, and man's alone;
Their vast appointments reach it not they see
On earth a bounty not indulg'd on high ;
And downward look for heav'n's superior praise!
First-born of ether! high in fields of light!
View man, to see the glory of your God!
Could angels envy, they had envied here;
And some did envy; and the rest, though gods,
Yet still gods unredeem'd (their triumphs man,
Tempted to weigh the dust against the skies),
They less would feel, though more adorn, my theme.
They sung creation (for in that they shar'd);
How rose in melody, that child of love!
Creation's great superior, man! is thine;
Thine is redemption; they just gave the key:
"Tis thine to raise, and eternize, the song;
Though human, yet divine; for should not this
Raise man o'er man, and kindle seraphs here?
Redemption! 'twas creation more sublime;
Redemption! 'twas the labour of the skies;
Far more than labour-it was death in heav'n.
A truth so strange! 'twere bold to think it true;
If not far bolder still to disbelieve.
Here pause, and ponder-Was there death in heav'n?
What then on earth? on earth, which struck the blow?
Who struck it? Who?-O how is man enlarg'd,
Seen through this medium! How the pigmy tow'rs!
How counterpois'd his origin from dust!
How counterpois'd to dust his sad return!
How voided his vast distance from the skies!
How near he presses on the seraph's wing!
Which is the seraph? Which the born of clay ?
How this demonstrates, through the thickest cloud
Of guilt, and clay condens'd, the son of heav'n!
The double son; the made, and the re-made!
And shall heaven's double property be lost?
Man's double madness only can destroy.
To man the bleeding cross has promis'd all;
The bleeding cross has sworn eternal grace;
Who gave his life, what grace shall he deny?
O ye who, from this Rock of Ages, leap,
Apostates, plunging headlong in the deep!
What cordial joy, what consolation strong,
Whatever winds arise, or billows roll,
Our interest in the Master of the storm!
Cling there, and in wreck'd nature's ruins smile;
While vile apostates tremble in a calm.
Man! know thyself. All wisdom centres there;
To none man seems ignoble, but to man;
Angels that grandeur, men o'erlook, admire :
How long shall human nature be their book,
Degenerate mortal! and unread by thee?
The beam dim reason sheds shows wonders there;
What high contents! illustrious faculties!
But the grand comment, which displays at full
Our human height, scarce sever'd from divine,
By heaven compos'd, was publish'd on the Cross.
Who looks on that, and sees not in himself
An awful stranger, a terrestrial god?
A glorious partner with the Deity
In that high attribute, immortal life?
If a god bleeds, he bleeds not for a worm:
I gaze, and, as I gaze, my mounting soul
Catches strange fire, eternity! at thee;
And drops the world—or rather, more enjoys:
How chang'd the face of nature! how improv'd!
What seem'd a chaos, shines a glorious world,
Or, what a world, an Eden; heighten'd all!
It is another scene! another self!
And still another, as time rolls along ;
And that a self far more illustrious still.
Beyond long ages, yet roll'd up in shades
Unpierc'd by bold conjecture's keenest ray,
What evolutions of surprising fate!
How nature opens, and receives my soul.
In boundless walks of raptur'd thought! where gods
Encounter and embrace me! What new births
Of strange adventure, foreign to the sun,
Where what now charms, perhaps, whatc'er exists,
Old time, and fair creation, are forgot!
Is this extravagant? Of man we form
Extravagant conception, to be just:
Conception unconfin'd wants wings to reach him :
Beyond its reach, the Godhead only, more.
He, the great Father! kindled at one flame
The world of rationals; one spirit pour'd
From spirit's awful fountain; pour'd himself
Through all their souls; but not in equal stream,
Profuse, or frugal, of th' inspiring God,
As his wise plan demanded; and when past
Their various trials, in their various spheres,
If they continue rational, as made,
Resorbs them all into himself again ;
His throne their centre, and his smile their crown.
Why doubt we, then, the glorious truth to sing, Though yet unsung, as deem'd, perhaps, too bold? Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad, High o'er celestial mountains wing'd in flight; And men are angels, loaded for an hour, Who wade this miry vale, and climb with pain, And slipp'ry step, the bottom of the steep. Angels their failings, mortals have their praise; While here, of corps ethereal, such enroll❜d, And summon'd to the glorious standard soon, Which flames eternal crimson through the skies. Nor are our brothers thoughtless of their kin, Yet absent; but not absent from their love. Michael has fought our battles; Raphael sung Our triumphs; Gabriel on our errands flown, Sent by the Sovereign and are these, O Man! Thy friends, thy warm allies? and thou (shame burn The cheek to cinder!) rival to the brute?
Religion's all. Descending from the skies
To wretched man, the goddess, in her left,
Holds out this world, and, in her right, the next;
Religion! the sole voucher man is man;
Supporter sole of man above himself;
Ev'n in this night of frailty, change, and death,
She gives the soul a soul that acts a god.
Religion Providence! an After-state !
Here is firm footing; here is solid rock!
This can support us; all is sea besides ;
Sinks under us; bestorms, and then devours.
His hand the good man fastens on the skies,
And bids earth roll, nor feels her idle whirl.
As when a wretch, from thick polluted air,
Darkness, and stench, and suffocating damps,
And dungeon horrors, by kind fate, discharg'd,
Climbs some fair eminence, where ether pure
Surrounds him, and Elysian prospects rise,
His heart exults, his spirits cast their load;
As if new-born, he triumphs in the change;
So joys the soul, when, from inglorious aims,
And sordid sweets, from feculence and froth
Of ties terrestrial, set at large, she mounts
To reason's region, her own element,
Breathes hopes immortal, and affects the skies.
Religion! thou the soul of happiness;
And, groaning Calvary, of thee! there shine
The noblest truths; there strongest motives sting;
There sacred violence assaults the soul;
There, nothing but compulsion is forborne.
Can love allure us? or can terror awe?
He weeps the falling drop puts out the sun ;
He sighs the sigh earth's deep foundation shakes.
If in his love so terrible, what then
His wrath inflam'd? his tenderness on fire?
Like soft, smooth oil, outblazing other fires?
Can prayer, can praise avert it ?-Thou, my all!
My theme! my inspiration! and my crown!
My strength in age! my rise in low estate!
My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth!-my world!
My light in darkness! and my life in death!
My boast through time! bliss through eternity!
Eternity, too short to speak thy praise!
Or fathom thy profound of love to man!
To man of men the meanest, even to me;
My sacrifice! my God!-what things are these!
What then art Thou? by what name shall I call thee?—
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