Part 2 — THE CHRISTIAN’S DREAM OF THE FUTURE.

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BY ROBERT MORRIS.

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How brief our earthly span! Youth, Manhood, Age—

We creep—we walk—we totter off life’s stage,

A thin, weak voice—a fuller, stronger tone,

A peevish, child-like cry, and then a groan!

How quick yon star shoots down the illumined sky—

’Tis gone! And yet we see not where on high,

Its bright lamp shone! ’Tis thus with feeble man—

He twinkles here a moment, and, is gone!

On rolls the world! Each evanescent year

Bears on its current to some distant sphere,

Myriads of mortal forms—vain things of time,

Youth in its hour of hope—and Manhood’s prime—

Beauty, and all its fading hues of clay,

The tints that are not, but were yesterday!

The eyes whose light enkindled many a flame—

The lips that breathed in love some cherished name—

The fair slight hand—the cheek so like the rose,

The form where Grace herself had sought repose—

The music voice—the shadowy locks and all

That touched the heart—or glittered in the ball;

These all have been—but Death has claimed them now—

The look of scorn—the proud and lofty brow—

Vice, with its heartless sneer, and Wealth and Pride,

Lifeless and still, now slumber side by side!

And is there then no grace to mortals given,—

No hope to brighten here and lead to Heaven?

No faith to lift the soul from worldly ties,

And point the way to Joy and Paradise!

Look to thy heart, vain mortal, question there,

Of life and death—of glory and despair—

Ask, if within a spirit may not dwell—

A viewless tenant of thy bosom’s cell—

Whose thin small voice, in accents soft and sweet,

May oft be heard to warn thy erring feet—

“Beware—avoid—beyond is Heaven’s high road,

Where knees are bent, and souls commune with God—

There, where the meek of heart, the pure and mild,

Walk hand in hand with Virtue’s dove-eyed child—

There, where the widow gives her liberal mite,

And points the orphan in the way aright—

There, where soft Feeling sheds the heart-wrung tear,

And bends in sorrow o’er the sinner’s bier—

Where patient Grief leans on her thin white hand,

And smiling, dreams of the unshadowed land—

Look—mortal look—the pathway is not bright—

But mark, it closes in a world of light—

The clouds that hang above its troubled way,

Melt in the distance into perfect day!

Such is the Christian’s Future! There are seen

Eternal sunshine—vales of softest green,

Grottos, savannahs, deep and flowery glades,

Clear sparkling streams and rainbow-lit cascades,

Thick shadowy woods, where many a voice of song

Gladdens the hours, as fast they flit along;

No care to mar their brightness, and no gloom

To whisper “onward, onward to the tomb”—

Bright Youth and Hope, by Grace and Beauty’s side,

No look of scorn—no air of worm-like pride,

No voice of woe, to pain the spirit ear—

No orphan’s cry—no widow’s heart-wrung tear—

No secret fear, to chill the hour of bliss,

No hollow heart—no false or Judas kiss—

No wan Disease, to steal the rose away!

And write at Beauty’s door, “Decay, Decay”—

Oh! no—the Future, Virtue’s happy clime—

The land beyond the grave, untouched by time,

Where the worn soul throws off its mortal clay—

And, god-like, springs to Heaven’s eternal day—

The realm of bliss—where, with a joy half wild,

The mother clasps and cherishes her child—

The widow claims her long lost son—the maid

Her plighted lover, years to her a shade—

Where friends embrace, and souls again unite,

Fond faces greet, and gladden on the sight—

The buried sire once more his idol boy

Clasps to his breast with more than human joy—

And well remembered voices—looks of love—

Kind words that sweeten every lip above;

Where, as we downward gaze, and distant far,

The world appears a faint and feeble star,

Where Life and Bliss their arms together twine,

And Nature’s charms are added, Heaven, to thine—

Where “moth nor rust,” nor chance nor change may come,

Forever wandering and forever home;

Joys brightening in our footsteps as we pass,

And Hope before us with his magic glass—

Each sound and song, each object, every thought,

With some new pleasure, some fresh feeling fraught—

Where one pure Spirit animates the whole,

One thrill excites the universal soul!

’Tis these, and joys like these, the Future brings,

When ’midst her depths we soar on Virtue’s wings—

When from the Past the light of hope we borrow,

And throw its brightness o’er the coming morrow,—

When, as we wander through life’s devious way,

The realm beyond this mere domain of clay

Shall, like some beacon on a rocky strand,

Win the strained gaze and nerve the feeble hand—

Shall point where danger lies, and where at last

Our bark may ride in safety from the blast!

Such is the Christian’s dream of time to come,

The land of light and love—the happy home—

Where the worn spirit, freed from earthly ties,

Above the things of dust and time shall rise,

And mount on angel pinions to the skies!