Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 2 by Gilfillan, George, 1813-1878

But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress Was just the same with ours, and nothing less; For thou a brother, and bloodthirsty too,

Didst fly,[1] whose children wrought thy children's woe: Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief, On stones didst sleep, and found'st but cold relief; Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand, And all that distance was law and command. But we a healing Sun, by day and night, Have our sure guardian and our leading light. What thou didst hope for and believe we find And feel, a Friend most ready, sure, and kind. Thy pillow was but type and shade at best, But we the substance have, and on him rest.

[1] Obadiah 10; Amos i, 11.

THE FEAST.

1 Oh, come away, Make no delay, Come while my heart is clean and steady! While faith and grace Adorn the place, Making dust and ashes ready!

2 No bliss here lent Is permanent, Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit; Short sips and sights Endear delights: Who seeks for more he would inherit.

3 Come then, true bread, Quickening the dead, Whose eater shall not, cannot die! Come, antedate On me that state, Which brings poor dust the victory.

4 Aye victory, Which from thine eye Breaks as the day doth from the east, When the spilt dew Like tears doth shew The sad world wept to be released.

5 Spring up, O wine, And springing shine With some glad message from his heart, Who did, when slain, These means ordain For me to have in him a part!

6 Such a sure part In his blest heart, The well where living waters spring, That, with it fed, Poor dust, though dead, Shall rise again, and live, and sing.

7 O drink and bread, Which strikes death dead, The food of man's immortal being! Under veils here Thou art my cheer, Present and sure without my seeing.

8 How dost thou fly And search and pry Through all my parts, and, like a quick And knowing lamp, Hunt out each damp, Whose shadow makes me sad or sick!

9 O what high joys! The turtle's voice And songs I hear! O quickening showers Of my Lord's blood, You make rocks bud, And crown dry hills with wells and flowers!

10 For this true ease, This healing peace, For this [brief] taste of living glory, My soul and all, Kneel down and fall, And sing his sad victorious story!

11 O thorny crown, More soft than down! O painful cross, my bed of rest! O spear, the key Opening the way! O thy worst state, my only best!