« EdellinenJatka »
No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear,
every face he wipes off every tear.
In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
And hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air,
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects;
The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms:
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
The promised father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise, ,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes ;
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more:
But useless lances into sithes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a plough-share end :
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son,
Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field.
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise;
And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear
New falls of water murmuring in his ear.
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods;
Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn,
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn;
To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed,
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleased, the green lustre of their scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crown’d with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes:
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons and daughters, yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gate attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temples bend;
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabæan springs!
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn:
But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away:
But fix'd his word, his saving power remains ;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns,
“ TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
" For here, forlorn and lost, I treád,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go.”
“ Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
“ To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder phantom only flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
“ Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still ;
And though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
Then turn to-night, and freely share
Wbate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch, and frugal fare,
My blessing, and repose.
“ No flocks that range the valley free,
To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
" But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
“ Then, Pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now when busy crowds retire,
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press’d, and smiled, And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.