To us is sensible; and each revolve Of the recording sun conducts us on Further in life, and nearer to our goal. Not so with Time,-mysterious chronicler, He knoweth not mutation;-centuries Are to his being as a day, and days
As centuries.-Time past, and Time to come, Are always equal; when the world began God had existed from eternity.
Hath time elapsed? Is he not standing in the selfsame place Where once we stood?-The same eternity Hath gone before him, and is yet to come; His past is not of longer span than ours, Though myriads of ages intervened;
For who can add to what has neither sum, Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end? Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind? Who can unlock the secrets of the high? In speculations of an altitude
Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd Foolish, and insignificant, and mean.
Who can apply the futile argument Of finite beings to infinity?
He might as well compress the universe Into the hollow compass of a gourd,
Scoop'd out by human art; or bid the whale Drink up the sea it swims in !-Can the less Contain the greater? or the dark obscure Infold the glories of meridian day? What does philosophy impart to man
But undiscover'd wonders?—Let her soar Even to her proudest heights-to where she caught The soul of Newton and of Socrates,
She but extends the scope of wild amaze And admiration. All her lessons end In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths.
Lo! the unletter'd hind, who never knew To raise his mind excursive to the heights Of abstract contemplation, as he sits On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, What time the insect swarms are murmuring, And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd The goodly prospect; he beholds the God Throned in the west, and his reposing ear Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze [brake, That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. Go with the cotter to his winter fire,
Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon; Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar,
Silent, and big with thought; and hear him bless The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds, For his snug hearth, and all his little joys: Hear him compare his happier lot with his Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, A poor night traveller, while the dismal snow Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, He hears some village mastiff's distant howl, And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light; Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, And clasps his shivering hands; or overpower'd, Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep, From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise And glowing gratitude, he turns to bless, With honest warmth, his Maker and his God! And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal To laud his Maker's attributes, while he Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, And Castaly enchasten'd with its dews, Closes his eyes upon the holy word, And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, Dares to declare his infidelity,
And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts? What is philosophy, if it impart Irreverence for the Deity, or teach A mortal man to set his judgment up
Against his Maker's will? The Polygar, Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys,
Is the most bless'd of men ! Oh! I would walk A weary journey, to the farthest verge
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, Preserves a lowly mind; and to his God, Feeling the sense of his own littleness, Is as a child in meek simplicity!
What is the pomp of learning? the parade Of letters and of tongues? e'en as the mists Of the gray morn before the rising sun, That pass away and perish.
Are but the transient pageants of an hour; And earthly pride is like the passing flower, That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud,
Baseless and silly as the schoolboy's dream. Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, And then record its downfall, what are they But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain? Hath Heaven its ages? or doth Heaven preserve Its stated eras? Doth the Omnipotent Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays? There is to God nor future nor a past;
Throned in his might, all times to him are present; He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come; He sees before him one eternal now.
Time moveth not!—our being 'tis that moves; And we, swift gliding down life's rapid stream, Dream of swift ages and revolving years, Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days: So the young sailor in the gallant bark, Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, Struck with amaze, that he is motionless,
And that the land is sailing.
Are the illusions of this proteus life!
All, all is false: through every phasis still 'Tis shadowy and deceitful. It assumes
The semblances of things and specious shapes; But the lost traveller might as soon rely On the evasive spirit of the marsh,
Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, As we on its appearances.
There is nor certainty nor stable hope. As well the weary mariner, whose bark Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, Where storm and darkness hold their drear domain, And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust To expectation of serener skies,
And linger in the very jaws of death, Because some peevish cloud were opening, Or the loud storm had bated in its rage; As we look forward in this vale of tears
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