John Warner Barber.

The Bible looking glass: reflector, companion and guide to the great truths of the Sacred Scriptures, and illustrating the diversities of human character, and the qualities of the human heart. Consist online

. (page 47 of 61)
Online LibraryJohn Warner BarberThe Bible looking glass: reflector, companion and guide to the great truths of the Sacred Scriptures, and illustrating the diversities of human character, and the qualities of the human heart. Consist → online text (page 47 of 61)
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gerly, as one wdio has good news to tell,
"he sitteth enthroned at the right hand
of God, the Sun of the City above."

"Have you, then, also a sacred city?"
said the Jew, in a tone of surprise."

"It lieth toward the sun-rising," re-
plied the Christian, in the words of an
early martyr, "Jerusalem the heavenly,
the city of the holj'."

"Your golden age, your holy city, are
then in the future, not in the past?" said

"You speak of an immortal life for
each man," added the Druid; "but is
there never to be a good time for man-

" It is written that the King, the Christ,
will come again in glory, to judge the
wicked and to raise the just," was the
reply; "and that then truth and right-
eousness shall reign on earth; for he is
holy, and just, and true, and in Him all
the nations of the earth shall be blessed."

Often during the months that followed,
the Hebrew and the Druid sought that
lowl}' miner's hut. There Jew and Gen-
tile learned together concerning Him
who is the Hope of Israel and the De-
sire of all nations.

The blank wall of dai-kness, which, to
the Jew, had seemed so strangely and
abruptly to close the long path of pro-
phetic light, and promise, parted and dis-
solved, displaying to his adoring gaze
a saci'ifice to whom all sacrifices pointed,

the Priest in whom all priesthood is
consummated, the King of whom Hebrew
kings and prophets sang, in whom all
dominion centers.

To the Druid, the dim desires of his
heart Avere at once explained and ful-
filled. Sin and falsehood were discovered
and brought to shame. "Life and im-
mortality were brought to light." And
on both gradually dawned, as the power
and wisdom of (iod, not a doctrine merely,
nor the ritual, but the Christ, the Son of
the living God.

Thus along on the rocky shores of the
Atlantic rose, in threefold harmony, the
Christian hymns to Him wdio heareth
always; the Sun whose presence is day
to faith, the glory for which Israel waited,
the Redeemer for whom all nations
blindly groped and longed, the Lamb of
God who taketh away the sin of the

There, also, erelong, in that lowly hut,
those strangers watched, as brothers,
by the death-bed of the Smj-rniate exile,
now onewdth them in Christ. And there,
on that bleak shore, they buried him, m
a quiet nook, consecrated by solitude,
and thenceforth by the immortal seed of
"the body that shall be." Races have
passed away since then, and civilizations;
rituals and religious systems have grown
up, run to seed, and perished; but from
those early ages to this, that new- song
of life and hope has never been entirely
silenced on our British shores.


[Eflward Younet, born in lfi>^l ; nnthor 6/ tho colebratea
"Is'ifflit Thous;lits," a work of genius, but oppressive from
its gloomy views of life and religion j

Treacherous Conscience ! while she seems to

On rose and myrtle, lulled with syren song;
While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the slackened rein.
And give us up to License, unrecalled,
Unmarked; — see, fiom behind her secret stand
The sly informer minutes every fault,
And her dread diary with horror fiUa





{These lines are from a poem rntitkd 'The Salilmtli,'" l>.v
James Uraliuiiie, a uioilest 8cutcli clergj man, wliodieil halt'a
rciitiny aao. A pl>asaiit aneeilote is lelattMl coiiiieeted witli
it.s piililication ile liaii iiot allixeil Ills name to tlie lioolc,
tior aciuaiiiteij his family witii liie geeivt ot its composition.
'J'.ikin- .1 copy lionu witli liim one day, lie left it on tlie ta-
Vile. His «i;e lie({an leailini,' It, wliile tlie sensitive antlioi-
valk ••! np anil clown tie' room , at 1. nsjth i-li" bioki- out in
■ prais-ol po 'm adding, " Ah, James, if you could lint
produce a poMii like this !" The joyful iickiiow ledgment ol
his Ij ma til • author was then made, no doubt with the
niost ex.iuisile pleasure ou both sides.)

How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The Hcythe lies glittering iu the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers
That yester-tnorn bloomed waving in the breeze;
Sounds the most, faint attract the ear; — the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew.
The distant bleating, mid-way up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unjnoving cloud.
To him, who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbirds note comes mellower from the

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
"Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
JSIurmiirs more gently down the deep-wont glen;
While frotn you lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals.
The ?oice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o er you village

broods :
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased, all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the litnping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on

Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasttire, roams at large;
And, as his stiff uitwieldy bulk he rolls.
His irou-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

But chiefly Man the day of rest eiijoj'S.
Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days, the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely ; the ground
Both seat and board; screened from the winter's

And summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosomed in liis home.
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving .thanks to God,— not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently.
With covered face and upward earnest eye.

Hail. Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river side.
He meditates on Hinij whose power he marks

In each green tree, that proudly spreads the

As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its root; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.


[Soamo Jenyns, an old Knglish writer,!

To live a hundred years, or e'er so few,
T IS repetition all, and nothing new;
A Fair wliere thousands meet, but none can

stay ;
An Inn wliere travelers bait, tlien post away;
A Sea wliere man perpetually is tost.
Now ]ilunged in business, now in trifles lost;
VVlio leaves it first, the peaceful port first ga'oi,

Might I frotti Fo"^tunc's bounteous liand receive
Each boon, eacii blessing, in her power to give'
Genius and science, morals and good sense,
Uiienvied honors, wit and eloquence,
A numerous otrs[,ring to tlie world well known,
Both for paternal virtues and their own;
E'en at this migh y price 1 'd not be bound
To tread the same dull circle round and round
The soul requires enjoyments more sublime,
By space unbounded, undestroyed by time.


[George W. Fulchcr; J eJ iu Sudbury, England, In ^S.'>r>.\

Come closer, closer, dear mamma, my heart is

filled with fears.
My eyes arc dark, — I hoar your sobs, but can not

see your tears.
I feel your warm breath on my lips, that are so

icy cold;
Come closer, closer, dear mamma, give me your

hand to hold.
I quite forget my little hymn, "How doth the busy

Which every day I used to say, when sitting on

your knee.
Nor can I recollect my prayers; and, dear mamma,

3'ou know
That the great God will angry be if I forget them,


And dear papa, when he comes home. will he

not be ve\ed ?
"Give us this day our daily bread;" — what is it

that comes next?
Hush, darling! you are going to the bright an4

blessed sky,



Where all God's holy children go, to live with him
on high.

But will he love me, dear mamma, as tenderly as

And will niy own papa, one day, come and live
with me, too?

But you must first lay me to sleep where grand-
papa is laid ; —

Is not the church-yard cold and dark, and sha'nt
I feel afraid ?

And will you every evening come, and say my

pretty prayer
O'er poor Lucy's little grave, and see that no

one 's there?
And promise me that when you die, that they

your grave shall make
Next unto mine, that 1 may be close to you when

I wake ?
Nay, do not leave me, dear mamma, your watch

beside me keep;
My heart feels cold ; the room 's all dark; now lay

me down to sleep: —
And should I sleep to wake no more, dear, dear,

mamma, good-by ;
Poor nurse is kind; but oh! do you be with me

when I die !



[Oliver Gotflsniitli was born in County Lonsfonl, Ireland,
in 172-1, the son of a poor Irish curate. No author in our
liini;uai!e has so euileareJ himself as ho by the artlrss be-
iif-Vdleiu-e shown in his works, and by his mellow, tlowinj;,
anil softly-tinted stylo. Washiagtcin Irvin.^says his writin^is
"put US in goud humor with

Online LibraryJohn Warner BarberThe Bible looking glass: reflector, companion and guide to the great truths of the Sacred Scriptures, and illustrating the diversities of human character, and the qualities of the human heart. Consist → online text (page 47 of 61)