O happy they! with such a portion blest!

To us, still journeying to the land of rest,

"Come," saith the Spirit, and the bride saith, "Come!" And Faith strives hard to reach th' appointed home.

O'er the rough desert, up the steep ascent,

By difficulties unstaid, by toil unspent,

We press; still gazing stedfast on the mark

The dawning light, which guides us thro' the dark;

Till, as the limit of our hope is gain'd,

And earth grows dim, and heav'n's fair fields expand,

As on the wings of eagles, to the throne

Of God we mount. The refuge is our own.

XIII.

Yet on the verge of judgment, while we stay,

Take we a solemn, yet a short survey

Of the proud actors of our earthly stage,
Th' heroic phantoms of a darkling age.

Once the vain idols of our wond'ring eyes,

And paragons of all that man should prize.
Earth seem'd on purpose form'd for their display,

Yet seem'd too close for their aspiring sway.
Now the dark veil is from their foreheads torn,
And rays of godlike light no more adorn;
Nor shall their fictious grandeur, or array,
Charm by fair semblance, nor by false betray.
Stript of their thin disguisement, or seen thro',
Their inbred characters appear to view,
Envelop'd in dark colours, and obscure

Amidst alarming hopes and thoughts impure.

Loud tho' the trump of history precede

The sumptuous march, emblazoning the deed; And poetry, with incense-season'd strains,

Exalt the victor to the starry plains.

Yet all in vain are their seducing arts,

To blind our eyes or captivate our hearts.

Ambition, fiend of hell, erects their nod,

And pride, disdaining men and hating God.
Clogg'd are their chariot-wheels with bleeding dead,
With widows' tears and orphans', vainly shed.
O! in the tumult of the madd'ning crowd,
Who hears the cries of Virtue, long and loud?
Who, with soft balm, assuages her fierce pain,
And bids her smile, and bids her hope again?
At what tribunal shall her wrongs be laid,
Her rightful claims, secure of royal aid?
Against her pray'r, her pleading, and her vows,
The tyrant shuts his ear and knits his brows;
Or hears the suppliant groan, with ruthless eye,
And, unconcern'd, beholds her droop and die.
And yet on such, the spoilers of their kind,
We, wretched minions, to our interests blind,
Fond of our base condition, lean'd for aid,

And crown'd them with the palm's indignant shade.

Long time we bow'd, and still beneath the yoke

Should bow, but God's strong arm the fetters broke.

Loud as a thunderclap, the rescue came,

And foil'd the mighty hunter of his game.
Hush'd is the Lion's lordly rage; no more
The world turns pale to hear his angry roar.
The ranging Bear has clos'd his horrid feast,

And the dire prowling of the Leopard ceas'd.
Nor shall the ten-horn'd monster, once the dread
Of wasted empires, long uphold his head;
Tho' round his offspring, with insinuous tail,

The dragon watch, and, mad with anguish, wail.

Faint, and yet fainter is that gasping throat,

Unfelt, unfear'd; retiring, and remote.

Hark, in the gale a softer note succeeds!

The soul looks ling'ring; Faith the promise pleads. O Lamb of God, the joyful sound increase!

Enlarge thy tents, th' abodes of perfect peace!

Stretch forth that sceptre, which shall awe the world,

When hostile monarchs from their thrones are hurl'd.

XIV.

Age after age rolls on;-like passing clouds,

Of grand events the destin'd phalanx crowds,

Succeeding and succeeded; closing fast,

Eventful all, but most of all the last.

Such things as we have seen, the saints interr'd
Desir'd to see, to hear as we have heard.

We not less anxious to behold the pow'r,

Now working, finish'd in a future hour.

The same sure sign, as they possess'd, have we,
That what the Spirit hath foreshown shall be.

Of this, the word perform'd in every age,

To them, to us is one unerring pledge.

One is the Author of our faith, the Friend,

By whom the work began, by whom shall end: