Poetry Archives

Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we
have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads.
Revelation vii. 3.


   Why blow’st thou not, thou wintry wind,
      Now every leaf is brown and sere,
   And idly droops, to thee resigned,
      The fading chaplet of the year?
   Yet wears the pure aerial sky
   Her summer veil, half drawn on high,
   Of silvery haze, and dark and still
The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.

   How quiet shows the woodland scene!
      Each flower and tree, its duty done,
   Reposing in decay serene,
      Like weary men when age is won,
   Such calm old age as conscience pure
   And self-commanding hearts ensure,
   Waiting their summons to the sky,
Content to live, but not afraid to die.

   Sure if our eyes were purged to trace
      God’s unseen armies hovering round,
   We should behold by angels’ grace
      The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound,
   Their downward sweep a moment stayed
   On ocean cove and forest glade,
   Till the last flower of autumn shed
Her funeral odours on her dying bed.

   So in Thine awful armoury, Lord,
      The lightnings of the judgment-day
   Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored,
      Till willing hearts wear quite away
   Their earthly stains; and spotless shine
   On every brow in light divine
   The Cross by angel hands impressed,
The seal of glory won and pledge of promised

   Little they dream, those haughty souls
      Whom empires own with bended knee,
   What lowly fate their own controls,
      Together linked by Heaven’s decree;—
   As bloodhounds hush their baying wild
   To wanton with some fearless child,
   So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes,
Till some repenting heart be ready for the skies.

   Think ye the spires that glow so bright
      In front of yonder setting sun,
   Stand by their own unshaken might?
      No—where th’ upholding grace is won,
   We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell,
   But sure from many a hidden dell,
   From many a rural nook unthought of there,
Rises for that proud world the saints’ prevailing prayer.

   On, Champions blest, in Jesus’ name,
      Short be your strife, your triumph full,
   Till every heart have caught your flame,
      And, lightened of the world’s misrule,
   Ye soar those elder saints to meet
   Gathered long since at Jesus’ feet,
   No world of passions to destroy,
Your prayers and struggles o’er, your task all praise and joy.