  (illuminated capital) Proud—and of what! poor vain and helpless worm Crawling in weakness through thy life’s brief term, Yet filled with thoughts presumptuous, bold, and high, As though thy grovelling soul could scan the sky, As though thy wisdom, which can not foreshow What one day brings of coming weal or woe, Could pierce the depths of far futurity, And all the wingÈd shafts of fate defy! Art proud of riches? of the glittering dust Each day may rob thee of, and one day must, When mines of wealth will purchase no delay, When dust to dust must turn, and clay to clay, And nought remain to thee of all possest, Save one dark cell in earth’s unconscious breast! Or proud of power? on this little ball Some petty tract may thee its master call, Some fellow-mortals, bending lowly down, Bask in thy smile, or tremble at thy frown; Great in the world’s eyes, in thine own how great, How swells thy breast with conscious pride elate! And art thou great? lift up—lift up thine eyes, Survey the heavens, gaze into the skies,— View the fair worlds that glitter o’er thy head, Orb above orb in bright succession spread, Beyond the reach of sight, the power of thought,— Then turn thy gaze to earth, and thou art—nought; The globe itself a speck—an atom thou! Oh, child of dust, shall pride exalt thee now? In one thing only thou mayst glory still, And let exulting joy thy bosom fill,— Glory in this—and what is all beside,— That for this worm—this atom—Christ hath died! Does conscious genius fire thy haughty mind, Genius, that raises man above his kind, The lofty soul that soars on wing of fire, While crowds at distance marvel and admire? Oh! while the charmed world pays her homage just, Remember every talent is a trust, A treasure God doth to thy care confide, A cause for gratitude, but none for pride. If thou that precious talent misapply, To spread the flood of infidelity, To strew with flowers the paths which sinners tread, To hide one treacherous snare by Satan spread,— How blest, how great, compared to thee, the man Whose life obscurely ends as it began, To whose meek soul no knowledge ere was given Save that—of all most high—that lifts the soul to Heaven. For, as the sun’s pure radiance, streaming bright, Transcends the glow-worm’s dim and fading light, The wisdom to that man vouchsafed from high Excells the earth-born fires that flash—and die! Oh! where shall pride securely harbour then, Where urge his claims to rule the minds of men? Blest Eden knew him not,—where all was fair, Where all was faultless,—pride abode not there. The glorious angels are above his sway, Their bliss to minister—to serve—obey; We—only we—poor children of a day, Tread haughtily the ground for our sakes curst, And wear with pride the chains our Surety burst! Would that the world could know and truly prize That which is great in the Creator’s eyes! The poor man, bending o’er his scanty store, Who, with God’s presence blest, desires no more; Who feels his sins, his weakness, though his ways Be just and pure beyond all human praise; Whose humble thoughts well with his prayer accord, “Have mercy upon me, a sinner, Lord!” Who, heir of an eternal, heavenly throne, Rests all his hopes on Christ, and Christ alone! Wisest of men—for he alone is wise; Richest of men—secure his treasure lies; Greatest of men—his mansion is on high; His Father—God; his portion—immortality! |
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