And thou, young martyr! thou wast there: Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave Yet, gentle sufferer, there shall be, In every heart of kindly feeling, A rite as holy paid to thee As if beneath the convent-tree Thy sisterhood were kneeling, At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. For thou wast one in whom the light Of Heaven's own love was kindled well, Enduring, with a martyr's might, Far more than words may tell: Where manly hearts were failing, where The throngful street grew foul with death, O, high-souled martyr! thou wast there, Inhaling from the loathsome air Poison with every breath; Yet shrinking not from offices of dread From the wrung dying and the unconscious dead. And, where the sickly taper shed Its light through vapors, damp, confined, Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, A new Electra by the bed Of suffering humankind! Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, To that pure hope which fadeth not away. Innocent teacher of the high And holy mysteries of Heaven! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy, As thy low prayers were given; And the o'erhovering spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features, a deliverer's smile! A blessed task! and worthy one Who, turning from the world, as thou, Giving to God her beauty and her youth, Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here Thine is a treasure far more dear: Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear Of living mortal heard The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, The holy presence of Eternal Love! Sleep on in peace. The earth has not A nobler name than thine shall be. The deeds by martial manhood wrought, The fire of poesy— These have but frail and fading honors; thine Shall time unto eternity consign. Yea: and when thrones shall crumble down, And human pride and grandeur fall— The herald's pride of long renown, The mitre and the kingly crown—— Perishing glories all! The pure devotion of thy generous heart Shall live in heaven, of which it was a part! SIR ROBERT GRANT. THE Rt. Hon. Sir Robert Grant, late governor of Bombay, was of one of the most ancient families of Scotland, and was a brother of the present Lord Glenelg. He died in 1838, and a collection of his "Sacred Poems" was published soon after in London. LINES. O SAVIOUR, whose mercy, severe in its kindness, The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below; So, cured of my folly, yet cured but in part, I thought that the course of the prilgrim to heaven I dreamed of celestial reward and renown; I grasped at the triumph which blesses the brave; Subdued and instructed, at length, to thy will, There are mansions exempted from sin and from wo, WHEN gathering clouds around I view, If wounded love my bosom swell, When vexing thoughts within me rise, PRAYER. SAVIOUR! when in dust to thee, When repentant to the skies Scarce we lift our streaming eyes,→ O, by all thy pains and wo, Bending from thy throne on high, By thy helpless infant years, By the dread permitted hour, By the sacred griefs that wept, O'er the grave where Lazarus slept,— By thine hour of dire despair, By the cross, the nail, the thorn, Piercing spear, and torturing scorn, By the gloom that veiled the skies O'er the dreadful sacrifice,- By the deep expiring groan, Listen, listen to the cry Of our solemn litany! |