Oh think not genius, with its hallowed light, Can break the gloom of an eternal night; For splendid talents often lead astray The unguarded heart, and hide the narrow way, While the unlearned and those of low estate, With faith's clear eye behold the living gate, Whose portals open on the shoreless sea Where time's strong ocean meets eternity. Across the gulf that stretches far beneath Lies the dark valley of the shade of death-- A land of deep forgetfulness,--a shore Which all must traverse, but return no more To this sad earth, to dissipate our dread, And tell the mighty secrets of the dead. Enough for us that those drear realms were trod By heavenly footsteps, that the Son of God Passed the dark bourne and vanquished Death, to save The weary wanderers of life's stormy wave.
Why then should man thus cleave to things of earth? Daily experience proves their little worth-- Or waste those noble qualities of mind, For wise and better purposes designed, In the pursuit of trifles, which confer No solid pleasure on their worshipper; Or in the search of causes that are known And guided by Omnipotence alone? A height his finite reason cannot reach, And all his boasted learning fails to teach? While the bewildering thought overwhelms his brain, Death comes to prove his speculations vain!
Is he deserving of a better doom Who will not raise a hope beyond the tomb? Who, quite enamoured with his fallen state, Clings to the world and leaves the rest to fate; Prefers corruption to his Maker's smile, "And shuns the light because his deeds are vile?" The man who feels the value of his soul, Presses unwearied towards a higher goal; Leaving this earth, he seeks a brighter prize, And claims a crown immortal in the skies. The child of pleasure may despise his aim, And heap reproach upon the Christian's name, May laugh his faith, as foolishness, to scorn:-- These by the man of God are meekly borne. His glorious hope no infidel can shake; He suffers calmly for his Saviour's sake.--
The world's poor votary seeks in vain for peace: He cannot bid the voice of conscience cease Its dire upbraidings; in his heartless course He meets at every turn the fiend Remorse, Who glares upon him with her tearless eye, That sears his heart--but mocks its agony. He hears that voice, amid the festive throng, Speak in the dance and murmur in the song, A death-bell, pealing in the midnight chime, Whose awful tones proclaim the lapse of time, And e'en the winged moments as they fly Seem to proclaim--"Rash mortal, thou must die! Soon must thou tread the path thy fathers trod, And stand before the judgment-seat of God!"-- He hears--but seeks in pleasure's cup to drown The dread that weighs his ardent spirit down; Derides the warning voice in mercy sent; Rejects the thought of after-punishment; In folly's vortex wastes the spring of youth, Nor, till death summons, owns the awful truth; Feels it too late to calm the agonies Remorse has kindled--and despairing, dies!