ISAAC WATTS, D.D. ISAAC WATTS, an eminent divine, philosopher, and poet, was born at Southampton, in 1674, and became a congregational minister. As a poet he is chiefly known by his "Hebrew Lyrics," "Hymns," &c. They are not very carefully finished; but there is a remarkable sweetness and purity of thought in them. Perhaps the most successful of his poems are his "Hymns for the Young," which are admirably adapted for their purpose. His psalms and hymns have, for half a century, been used in nearly all the churches that worship in the English language; and if popularity were a test of merit, Watts should be ranked with Milton. He died in 1748. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. AN ODE ATTEMPTED IN THE ENGLISH SAPPHIC. WHEN the fierce north wind, with his airy forces, And the red lightning, with a storm of hail, comes How the Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder, Tears the strong pillars of the vault of heaven, Hark! the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches; Stare through their eyelids, while the living worm lies Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings, Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver, Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horrid How He sits God-like! and the saints around Him, Oh! may I sit there when he comes triumphant, HOPE IN DARKNESS. YET gracious God, Yet will I seek thy smiling face: "Tis but a morning vapor or a summer cloud; Though for a moment He depart, I dwell forever on his heart, Forever He on mine. Early before the light arise, I'll spring a thought away to God; The passion of my heart and eyes Dear Sovereign, hear thy servant pray; Bend the blue heavens, Eternal King, Downward thy cheerful graces bring; Or shall I breathe in vain, and pant my hours away? Break, glorious Brightness, through the gloomy veil, Look, how the armies of despair Aloft their sooty banners rear Round my poor captive soul, and dare Pronounce me prisoner of hell. But Thou, my Sun, and Thou, my Shield, Wilt save me in the bloody field; Break, glorious Brightness, shoot one glimmering ray; One glance of thine creates a day, And drives the troops of hell away. Happy the times, but ah! those times are gone, When wondrous power, and radiant grace, Round the tall arches of thy temple shone, And mingled their victorious rays: Sin, with all its ghastly train, Fled to the depths of death again, And smiling triumph sat on every face: Our spirits, raptured with the sight, Were all devotion, all delight, And loud Hosannas sounded the Redeemer's praise. Here could I say, (And paint the place whereon I stood,) Here I enjoyed a visit half the day From my descending God: I was regaled with heavenly fare, With fruit and manna from above; Divinely sweet the blessings were, While my Emmanuel was there; And o'er my head The Conqueror spread The banner of his love. Then why, my heart, sunk down so low? Review, my soul, those pleasing days, Through the displeasure of his face, A father's love may raise a frown, The hour of darkness is but short, Faith be thy life, and patience thy support: The morning brings the joy. DIVINE JUDGMENTS. Nor from the dust my sorrows spring, Nor drop my comforts from the lower skies: Let all the baneful planets shed Their mingled curses on my head; How vain their curses, if th' Eternal King Look through the clouds, and bless me with his eyes! Creatures with all their boasted sway, Are but his slaves, and must obey; They wait their orders from above, And execute his word, the vengeance, or the love. 'Tis by a warrant from his hand, The gentler gales are bound to sleep; The north-wind blusters, and assumes command Old Boreas, with his freezing powers, And chains them moveless to the shores; The grazing ox lows to the gelid skies, Walks o'er the marble meads with withering eyes, Walks o'er the solid lakes, snuffs up the wind, and dies. Fly to the polar world, my sun, And mourn the pilgrims there, (a wretched throng!) A troop of statues on the Russian plains, And magazines of frost, and magazines of flame. His sharp artillery from the north Shall pierce thee to thy soul, and shake thy mortal frame. Sublime on winter's rugged wings, He rides in arms along the sky, And scatters fate on swains and kings; And flocks, and herds, and nations die, While impious lips, profanely bold, Grow pale, and quivering at his dreadful cold, Give their own blasphemies the lie. The mischiefs that infest the earth, When the hot dog-star fires the realms on high, Are but the flashes of a wrathful eye, From the incensed Divinity. In vain our parching palates thirst For vital food, in vain we cry, The verdant fields are burnt to dust, The sun has drunk all channels dry, Ye scourges of our Maker's rod, "Tis at his dread command, at his imperial nod, You deal your various plagues abroad. |