If his life a snare would prove, If his life would matter raise For the purpose of soothing the feelings of his bereaved wife, still enfeebled by disease, and of rendering the loss of their son subservient to her spiritual benefit, Mr. Charles Wesley wrote the following hymn, which he entitled, “A mother's act of resignation on the death of a child : ”— Peace, my heart, be calm, be still, Who on me himself bestow'd Child of prayer, by grace divine Through his last convulsive throes Through the purple fountain brought, Lord, for this alone I stay, Then with all thy saints I meet, But Mr. Charles Wesley's most remarkable poetical composition, written upon this mournful and joyous occasion, was a hymn in eight parts, containing fifty-one stanzas, of six lines each, in which he gives full vent to his own deep and irrepressible feelings. It forms a perfect con trast to the calm and soothing verses which he put into the mouth of his sorrowing and enfeebled wife. Here the poet, the father, the husband, the man of God, are seen to the greatest advantage. He begins in the language of passionate regret; he offers thanksgivings to God for the mother's preservation; he celebrates the child's escape from all the toils, the sorrows, the perils of life, and his admission into the company of the heavenly harpers; and in all the confidence and joy of hope, he anticipates his own glorification, and that of the mother, with their sainted child; praying, at the same time, for a sanctified use of the bereavement. The infant was gone; and the parents now take God alone for their portion. The following specimens are given. Who can read the touching lines without tears? Who can see the secrets of a generous and sanctified nature disclosed, without admiration and love? ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD. DEAD! dead! the child I loved so well! I never dared indulge my love : Mine earthly happiness is fled, His mother's joy, his father's hope, He should have lived, my age's prop; But hath not Heaven, who first bestow'd, I bow me to the sovereign GOD, Yet nature will repeat her moan, Turn from him, turn, officious thought! Which wound my heart with soothing pain: His looks, his winning gestures, rise, His waving hands, and laughing eyes! Those waving hands no more shall move, With sweet insinuating power Farewell, (since Heaven ordains it so,) He justly claims the first-born son, At his command the victim dies! His wisdom timed the lingering stroke; The Searcher of my heart can tell I shrunk from the suspected good, The labour of my aching breast, The racking fears, to God are known; I could not in his danger rest; I trembled for my helpless son: The travail of my soul is past, Severer than the mother's throes, For lo! my child is born at last, The glorious life of angels knows; He bursts yon ambient azure shell, He flies from us with God to dwell. Look down, thou happy spirit, look down, Great King of saints, to thee alone For mercy and for grace we pray : Thy glorious grace hath saved the son, The parents next to heaven convey, Thy power and goodness to adore, Where death and parting is no more. Jesus, our sole support thou art, Who weeping build our infant's tomb, When we shall lay our burden down, When loosed from earth our souls shall soar, And find whom we shall lose no more. No human heart can e'er conceive Where one we fondly deem'd our heir, Arrived above, the stranger stands, Angels, rejoice! a child is born Into your happier world above! An everlasting spirit flies, To claim his kindred in the skies. |