Not in some land where pagan darkness hangs, Where barbarous worship tempts the zealots' pangs! No land of ignorance, no slavish race
Upholds the orgies of this hellish place;
But men, to freedom, light, and knowledge born,
Who bear the name of Christ, alas! to scorn:
A land which claims pre-eminence in good,
Whose praise, with lavish hand, o'er all the world is strewed
England! for thee, the fairest land of earth,
To give these worse than pagan temples birth!
To grieve the ear of Heaven with sounds like those,
Polluting e'en the Sabbath's sweet repose;
How great thy guilt! how deep should be thy shame,
In presence of this sin, which blights thy name;
Which fills thy homes with every form of woe,
And yields thy children up to such a foe!
Thy sons, inspired with pitying zeal, are led
O'er heathen lands the Christian's faith to spread ;
They see the horrors of each pagan rite,
Each blood-stained altar, each revolting sight,
Where frantic thousands perish at a sign,
And thousands still supply the reeking shrine.
Thine ears are filled with cries of India's need,
Nor would we bid thee cease those cries to heed:
Yet turn a moment to thyself, and see
This bitter curse that long hath wasted thee.
Destroy the heathen's temple if thou wilt,
But strike with equal zeal this shrine of guilt;
Plead with the worshippers of wood and stone-
But, oh! destroy this idol of thy own.
Sheva and Vishnu there, and Bacchus here,
In God's impartial eye as one appear.
Let thy broad charity, unbounded, roam,
But never blind thee to the wrongs at home.
HYMN OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURERS.
O God, who by thy Prophet's hand
Didst smite the rocky brake,
Whence waters came at thy command,
Thy people's thirst to slake;
Strike now upon this granite wall,
Stern, obdurate, and high,
And let some drops of pity fall
For us, who starve and die!
The God who took a little child,
And set him in the midst,
And promised him His mercy mild—
As by thy Son thou didst :
Look down upon our children dear,
So gaunt, so cold, so spare,
And let their images appear,
Where lords and gentry are.
Oh God, teach them to feel how we,
When our poor infants droop,
Are weakened in our trust in Thee,
And how our spirits stoop;
For in thy rest, so bright and fair,
All tears and sorrows sleep;
And their young looks, so full of care,
Would make thine angels weep.
The God who with his finger drew
The Judgment coming on,
Write for these men, what must ensue,
Ere many years be gone!
Oh God, whose bow is in the sky,
Let them not brave and dare,
Until they look (too late) on high,
And see an arrow there.
Oh God, remind them, in the bread
They break upon the knee,
These sacred words may yet be read,
"In memory of Me."
Oh God, remind them of His sweet
Compassion for the poor,
And how He gave them bread to eat,
And went from door to door.
Let there be Peace. How long shall cursed War
Trample with iron heel the verdant earth,
And cannon feed on God-created man?
Is death so slow in slaying, that we thus
Such devilish arts and hellish arms devise
To aid his sad exterminating work,
Unpeopling the kingdoms? Let us not
Thus play a game at which even winners lose-
No longer broadcast sow the bloody seed
Whence bitterest harvests spring. The bloodless pen,
Books, reasons, arbitration, arguments—
Let these fight future battles; let our strife
Be henceforth only but for precedence
I' th' onward march of love. Both great and famed
Have been the warlike nations. Greater still,
More prosperous and more famous she will be
Who first shall sheathe the desolating sword,
And teach the nations Peace and Harmony..
"BLESSED ARE THE PEACE MAKERS."
When ancient Sabines, fired with vengeance, came
Their lovely stolen daughters to reclaim ;
And the fierce Roman bared his ready brand,
Who sought the field and held the warrior's hand?
See where they kneel! Meek daughters and fond wives! Fathers," they cry, "oh, spare our husbands' lives!" See how they weep between the opposing ranks,
(So glides some silver stream 'twixt frowning banks)
See how from host to host they fly by turns,
The child beseeches, and the fond wife yearns;
Even their helpless babes are brought to plead ;
See, they are conquerors-love must succeed!
Affection's tear can master anger's frown;
The Sabines melt, the Roman lance sinks down ;
The enchanted armies sheath their swords and cry,
"Since both are dear to thee, neither must die."
Could woman's pleading love do this of old,
And is her soul less kind, her heart more cold?
Could heathens feel such tenderness of yore,
And shall not Christian ladies feel yet more?
Oh, woman! let thy voice of pleading love
Float o'er the tempest like the ancient dove ;
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