CHARLES WESLEY: WRESTLING JACOB. 297 roused the hearts of the people to sing, his brother Charles put songs in their mouths. I do not say that many of these songs possess much literary merit, but many of them are real lyrics : they have that essential element, song, in them. The following, however, is a very fine poem. That certain expressions in it may not seem offensive, it is necessary to keep the allegory of Jacob and the Angel in full view even better in view, perhaps, than the writer does himself. - WRESTLING JACOB. Come, O thou traveller unknown, My company before is gone, And I am left alone with thee! I need not tell thee who I am, Look on my hands, and read it there! In vain thou strugglest to get free: * What though my sinking flesh complain, I rise superior to my pain: When I am weak, then I am strong; My strength is gone; my nature dies; I fall, and yet by faith I stand- Yield to me now, for I am weak, 'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me! I hear thy whisper in my heart! Pure universal Love thou art! My prayer hath power with God; the grace Unspeakable I now receive; Through faith I see thee face to face I see thee face to face, and live: * Contented now, upon my thigh 1 Insisting-persistent. WILLIAM COWPER. All helplessness, all weakness, I Lame as I am, I take the prey; Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome; I leap for joy, pursue my way, Thy nature and thy name is Love. 299 It seems to me that the art with which his very difficult end in the management of the allegory is reached, is admirable. I have omitted three stanzas. I cannot give much from William Cowper. His poems graceful always, and often devout even when playful-have few amongst them that are expressly religious, while the best of his hymns are known to every reader of such. Born in 1731, he was greatly influenced by the narrow theology that prevailed in his circle; and most of his hymns are marred by the exclusiveness which belonged to the system and not to the man. There is little of it in the following: Far from the world, O Lord, I flee, From scenes where Satan wages still The calm retreat, the silent shade, There if thy spirit touch the soul, Oh with what peace, and joy, and love, There, like the nightingale, she pours Nor asks a witness of her song, Author and guardian of my life, What thanks I owe thee, and what love-- A boundless, endless store Shall echo through the realms above Sad as was Cowper's history, with the vapours of a low insanity, if not always filling his garden, yet ever brooding on the hill-tops of his horizon, he was, through his faith in God, however darkened by the introversions of a neat, poverty-stricken theology, yet able to lead his life to the end. It is delightful to discover that, when science, which is the anatomy of nature, had poisoned the theology of the country, in creating a demand for clean-cut theory in infinite affairs, the loveliness and truth of the countenance of living nature could calm the mind which this theology had irritated to the very borders of madness, and give a peace and hope which the man was altogether right in attributing to the Spirit of God. How many have been thus comforted, who knew not, like Wordsworth, the immediate channel of their comfort; or even, with Cowper, recognized its source! God gives while men sleep. CHAPTER XXI. THE NEW VISION. WILLIAM BLAKE, the painter of many strange and fantastic but often powerful-sometimes very beautiful pictures-wrote poems of an equally remarkable kind. Some of them are as lovely as they are careless, while many present a curious contrast in the apparent incoherence of the simplest language. He was born in 1757, towards the close of the reign of George II. Possibly if he had been sent to an age more capable of understanding him, his genius would not have been tempted to utter itself with such a wildness as appears to indicate hopeless indifference to being understood. We cannot tell sometimes whether to attribute the bewilderment the poems cause in us to a mysticism run wild, or to regard it as the reflex of madness in the writer. Here is a lyrical gem, however, although not cut with mathematical precision. DAYBREAK. To find the western path, Sweet morning leads me on: With soft repentant moan, I see the break of day. |