Had they who watch'd and waited there
Been conscious who was passing by,
With what unceasing, anxious care
Would they have sought his pitying eye!
And craved with fervency of soul,
His sovereign power to make them whole.
But habit and tradition sway'd
Their minds to trust to sense alone;
They only sought the angel's aid,
While in their presence stood, unknown,
A greater, mightier far than he,
With power from every pain to free.
Bethesda's pool has lost its power!
No angel, by his glad descent Dispenses that diviner dower
Which with its healing waters went ; But He whose word surpass'd its wave Is still omnipotent to save.
And what that fountain once was found
Religion's outward forms remain,
With living virtue only crown'd
While their first freshness they retain; Only replete with power to cure When, Spirit-stirr'd, their source is pure!
Yet are there who this truth confess,
Who know how little forms avail,
But whose protracted helplessness
Confirms the impotent's sad tale;
Who, day by day, and year by year,
As emblems of his lot appear.
They hear the sounds of life and love,
Which tell the visitant is nigh;
They see the troubled waters move,
Whose touch alone might life supply;
But weak of faith, infirm of will,
Are powerless, helpless, hopeless still!
Saviour! Thy word is still the same
As when that healing word was spoke ;
Still in thine all-redeeming name
Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke;
Oh, be that power, that love display'd!
Help those whom Thou alone canst aid!
TO A FRIEND ENTERING THE MINISTRY.
HIGH thoughts at first and visions high
Are ours of easy victory;
The word we bear seems so divine,
So framed for Adam's guilty line,
That none, unto ourselves we say,
Of all his sinning suffering race,
Will hear that word so full of grace,
And coldly turn away.
But soon a sadder mood comes round:
High hopes have fallen to the ground,
And the ambassadors of peace
Go weeping that men will not cease
To strive with heaven; they weep and
That suffering men will not be blest,
That weary men refuse to rest,
And wanderers to return.
Well is it, if has not ensued
Another and a darker mood,
When all unfaithful thoughts have way,
When we hang down our hands and say—
Alas! it is a weary pain
To seek with toil and fruitless strife
To chafe the numb'd limbs into life
That will not live again!
Then, if spring odours on the wind
Float by, they bring into our mind,
That it were wiser done to give
Our hearts to nature, and to live
For her or, in the student's bower,
To search into her hidden things,
And seek in books the wondrous springs
Of knowledge and of power!
Or if we dare not thus draw back,
Yet oh! to shun the crowded track
And the rude throng of men! to dwell
In hermitage or lonely cell,
Feeding all longings that aspire
Like incense heavenward, and with care
And lonely vigil nursing there
Faith's solitary pyre!
Oh, let us not this thought allow !
The heat, the dust upon our brow,
Signs of the contest, we may wear;
Yet thus we shall appear more fair
In our Almighty Master's eye,
Than if, in fear to lose the bloom,
Or ruffle the soul's lightest plume,
We from the strife should fly.
And for the rest, in weariness,
In disappointment or distress,
When strength decays, or hope grows dim, We ever may recur to Him,
Who has the golden oil divine Wherewith to feed our failing urns, Who watches every lamp that burns Before His sacred shrine !
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