Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 104

If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of supplication to G.o.d for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me!

O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be those of simple, heartfelt trust in G.o.d, and of faith in their Elder Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song, To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs, Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares.

2 Not the wild herds of nymphs and swains That thoughtless fly into thy chains, As custom leads the way: If there be bliss without design, Ivies and oaks may grow and twine, And be as blest as they.

3 Not sordid souls of earthly mould Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, To dull embraces move: So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, And make a world of love.

4 Not the mad tribe that h.e.l.l inspires With wanton flames; those raging fires The purer bliss destroy: On Aetna's top let furies wed, And sheets of lightning dress the bed, To improve the burning joy.

5 Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms None of the melting pa.s.sions warms Can mingle hearts and hands: Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like stoic souls, With osiers for their bands.

6 Not minds of melancholy strain, Still silent, or that still complain, Can the dear bondage bless: As well may heavenly concerts spring From two old lutes with ne'er a string, Or none besides the ba.s.s.

7 Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between.

8 Nor let the cruel fetters bind A gentle to a savage mind, For love abhors the sight: Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, For native rage and native fear Rise and forbid delight.

9 Two kindest souls alone must meet; 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves: Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And Cupids yoke the doves.

THE SLUGGARD.

1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, 'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.'

As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;'

Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

3 I pa.s.sed by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher; The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags, And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find He had took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me: That man's but a picture of what I might be; But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.'

THE ROSE.

1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower!

The glory of April and May!

But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day.

2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field: When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose: But all our fond care to preserve them is vain; Time kills them as fast as he goes.

4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade: But gain a good name by well doing my duty; This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead.

A CRADLE HYMN.

1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, Holy angels guard thy bed!

Heavenly blessings without number Gently falling on thy head.

2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, House and home, thy friends provide; All without thy care or payment, All thy wants are well supplied.

3 How much better thou'rt attended Than the Son of G.o.d could be, When from heaven he descended, And became a child like thee!

4 Soft and easy in thy cradle: Coa.r.s.e and hard thy Saviour lay, When his birthplace was a stable, And his softest bed was hay.

5 Blessed babe! what glorious features, Spotless fair, divinely bright!

Must he dwell with brutal creatures?

How could angels bear the sight?

6 Was there nothing but a manger Cursed sinners could afford, To receive the heavenly Stranger!

Did they thus affront their Lord?

7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee, Though my song might sound too hard; This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee, { nurse that } And her arms shall be thy guard.

8 Yet to read the shameful story, How the Jews abused their King, How they served the Lord of glory, Makes me angry while I sing.

9 See the kinder shepherds round him, Telling wonders from the sky!

Where they sought him, where they found him, With his virgin mother by.

10 See the lovely babe a-dressing; Lovely infant, how he smiled!

When he wept, the mother's blessing Soothed and hushed the holy child.

11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger, Where the horned oxen fed: Peace, my darling, here's no danger, Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, Save my dear from burning flame, Bitter groans, and endless crying, That thy blest Redeemer came.

13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him, Trust and love him, all thy days; Then go dwell for ever near him, See his face, and sing his praise!

14 I could give thee thousand kisses, Hoping what I most desire; Not a mother's fondest wishes Can to greater joys aspire.

[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend.

BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

The beauty of my native land Immortal love inspires; I burn, I burn with strong desires, And sigh and wait the high command.

There glides the moon her shining way, And shoots my heart through with a silver ray.

Upward my heart aspires: A thousand lamps of golden light, Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight, And wink and beckon with their amorous fires.

O ye fair glories of my heavenly home, Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court, Where all the happy minds resort!

When will my Father's chariot come?

Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round, For ever see the mourner lie An exile of the sky, A prisoner of the ground?