Go not
away, thou weary soul:
Heaven has in
store a precious dole
Here on Bethsaida's cold and darksome height.
Where over rocks
and sands arise
Proud Sirion
in the northern skies,
And Tabor's lonely peak, 'twixt thee and noon-day light.
And far below,
Gennesaret's main
Spreads many
a mile of liquid plain,
(Though all seem gathere'd in one eager bound,)
Then narrowing
cleaves yon palmy lea,
Towards that
deep sulphureous sea,
Where five proud cities lie, by one dire sentence drown'd.
Landscape of
fear! yet, weary heart,
Thou needst
not in thy gloom depart,
Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home:
Sweetly thy
sickening throbs are ey'd
By the kind
Saviour at thy side;
For healing and for balm e'en now thine hour is come.
No fiery wing
is seen to glide,
No cates ambrosial
are supplied,
But one poor fisher's rude and scanty store
Is all He asks
(and more than needs)
Who men and
angels daily feeds,
And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry shore.
The feast is
o'er, the guests are gone,
And over all
that upland lone
The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old--
But far unlike
the former dreams,
The heart's
sweet moonlight softly gleams
Upon life's varied view, so joyless erst and cold.
As mountain travellers
in the night,
When heaven
by fits is dark and bright,
Pause listening on the silent heath, and hear
Nor trampling
hoof nor tinkling bell,
Then bolder
scale the rugged fell,
Conscious the more of One, ne'er seen, yet ever near:
So when the tones
of rapture gay
On the lorn
ear, die quite away,
The lonely world seems lifted nearer heaven:
Seen daily,
yet unmark'd before,
Earth's common
paths are strewn all o'er
With flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven.
The low sweet
tones of Nature's lyre
No more on listless
ears expire,
Nor vainly smiles along the shady way
The primrose
in her vernal nest,
Nor unlamented
sink to rest
Sweet roses one by one, nor autumn leaves decay.
There's not a
star the heaven can show,
There's not
a cottage-hearth below,
But feeds with solace kind the willing soul--
Men love us,
or they need our love;
Freely they
own, or headless prove
The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.
Then rouse thee
from desponding sleep,
nor by the wayside
lingering weep,
Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild,
Whose love can
turn earth's worst and least
Into a conqueror's
royal feast:
Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguil'd.
