The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1842-12-02 00:00:00

igottrp.

'T WAS YESTERDAY.

(From Fraser's Magazine for December.)
" 'T was yesterday ! " familiar sound,
Heard oft as idle breath ;
Yet, prophet-like, to all around,
It spoke of woe and death !
A mourner by the past it stands,
In mystic mantle of decay,
Shrouds in the night of years its hands,
And grasps all life away !

High from the boundless vault of Time
The stars of empire veer ;
" 'T was yesterday" they beam'd sublime,
The mightiest in their sphere !
'T was yesterday reveal'd to Fate
The rival crowns of centuries flown,
Shew'd where a Phantom sat in state
Upon the Caesars' throne !

Sceptre and robe were cast aside !
The ghastly bones stood bare ;
The rust fed on the gauds of pride,
The worm held council there.
Nor answer would the phantom give,
But to our constant prayer replied—
" Thus 't will be said of all that live,
That ' yesterday' they died ! "

Where are the Grecian conquests now,
The triumphs of her lute ?
Dust rests on the Homeric brow,
Her genius is mute !
Where are the glorious hearts that fought
For freedom in the " Pass of Gore " ?
Gone—where the mightiest names are sought—
With yesterday of yore!

We hope—but what we hope the shroud
Wraps from our weeping sight ;
We aim at stars, and clasp the cloud,—
Seek day, and find but night !
Ah ! who with Life's dread woes could cope,
If 't were not for that Faith sublime,
Which sees the Ararat of Hope
Above the floods of Time?

What then is " Yesterday" ?—a key
To wisdom most divine !
It is the hall of Memory,
Where Fame's brief trophies shine!
The spiritual home of things,
Where Intellect immortal beams,
Which lends to thought its holiest wings,
Inspires the noblest themes !

A drop that mirrors forth a world,
Then mingles with the earth ;
4 star from Time's vast empire hurled,
Slow falling from its birth.
A presence with the sacred past,
To warn our spirits of delay,
Which saith,—" Proud man, to-day thou hast,
Use well thy little day!"

CHARLES SWAIN.

LITERARY NOTICES.

Death Conquered and other Poems. By the Rev. W.
M'llvaine, A.M., Minister of St. George's, Belfast. Lon-
don : F. Baisler ; Dublin : Curry and Co.
" 4.volume of religions poetry," will be the exclamation of
some readers of the present notice. And what true poetry,
we ask, 'is not religious ? The poet's heart is overflowing
with religious feeling. He has communed with nature in
her solitudes. He has learnt the language of the trees and
flowers, the hills and streams which diversify her fair face ;
and is not every word which they speak, and every feeling
which they inspire, a mute remembrancer of the mighty hand
which formed them—a remembrancer, too, of the perishable
and fleeting nature of all things earthly ? The poet must be
religious, or he must close alike his ear and his heart, to the
voices which ever hold communion with him upon his pas-
sage through the world.
In this sense the author of the work before us is a religious
poet ; but he is also a religious poet in a better and more
valuable acceptation of the word. A strain of pure christian
feeling flows through the pages of his present publication,
and gives sterling value to what might otherwise be desig-
nated as merely beautiful. His leading poem, " Death Con-
quered,"—and of that we must principally speak—is emi-
nently religious in design and execution; but it is charac-
terized with that kind of religious feeling lich flows from
the heart, and is, therefore, consistent with genuine poetry.
The subject is a splendid one, and, although occupied be-
fore, by Robert Montgomery, has not been exhausted. More,
certainly, might have been made of it by Mr. M'llvaine ;
and our regret that he has not devoted to it a greater amount
of the power which he poseesses, is increased by the quality
of what he has produced. Many portions of it are very beau-
tiful, and we are somewhat at a loss where to select for quo-
tation. The following picture, however, will convey as fair
a specimen of his mode of treating the subject as any which
we could fix upon.
" There was a lovely spot, I knew it well,
Oft visited, and ever with delight,
By those who knew and prized true loveliness.
'Twas not the trelliss'd porch, where roses twined
And jessamines alonc, that cottage front ;
'Twas not the breath' of many pleasant flowers,
Which shed their grateful perfume round its door,
Though lovely these, and peaceful all around,
That graced it most. Within a parent dwelt,
A man of many years—with silver'd locks
And placid countenance, which not the track
Of many a cars and sorrow past availed
To mark with discontent or sadden'd look.
One daughter, dear, the only branch now left
Unpluck'd, to grace the parent stem, remained
To cheer his downward way. The old man's smile
Repaid hrr every care and anxious thought—
All centred in his happiness and peace.
She was the sunbeam of his home and heart—
The partner of his feeble steps by day ;
And when the evening closed, and night drew on,
The hour which bids the worldling to his bliss
In crowded theatre, or fashion's haunt,
Her's was the blessed task opening to read
The page of Revelation to her sire ;
To point his eye and hope to better worlds,
And tell of that dear rest by God prepar'd
For his own children in the realms of love.
Days, months, and years rolled by, untir'd the care
That tended thus a parent, and untir'd
The love that flowed responsive from his heart,
On this the staff of his declining age.
Thus, in the forest, may we sometimes mark
The aged tree, whose trunk, all sear'd and bare,
Tells of the ages that have o'er it gone;
And, while its topmost boughs breathe their last smile
Of verdure, round its base the ivy clings
Supporting and supported.

Blessed place!
That cottage breathed upon the world around
A gale of heaven ; yet not heaven's perfect joy
Was here,—'tis nowhere in this vale of woe.
Oft on that maiden's brow a cloud of care
Sat heavily, and dewed her moisten'd eye
With silent tears. These were not bitter drops—
Not marks of penitential anguish, wrung
From heart-recorded thoughts of guilt gone by—
These were not tears of selfish sorrow shed,
In sad repining. No ; an angel's wing
Might brush such pearls away unsullied still
With aught of earth,—their origin was heaven.
For oft recurred the question, " Is my sire
Indeed prepar'd to put the garment off
Of frail humanity ? Oh ! is his heart
New-born of God, and his dependence fix'd
-On that Redeemer's finished work alone, . •
Whom I have learned to trust ?" Thoughts such as t,h
.se
Oft rested on her heart ; nor there alone,
But found their way in many a burden'd sigh
To Him above, who hears and answers prayer.
The summer's sun sat on her shaded brow
With sad presage ; and autumn left it ting'd
With a still sicklier hue : the winter day
Came on with chilly blast, and brought a change
To her unwonted. By the lowly bed
Of suffering poverty and lone disease
Her presence is no longer found, as once,
When, like a guardian spirit, she would glide,
With light and noiseless step, from cot to cot.
The aged mourned her absent, and the young,
Whose infant tongues had learn'd from hers to lisp
The Saviour's name, still missed her well-known face
From school and cottage—missed her as their friend,
Their teacher, pattern, and adviser kind.
It was upon a lovely spring-tide eve,
That by his cottage door the old man sat,
As oft in bygone days. Without was peace,—
Heaven's setting sun smiled down in radiance bland
On all around : within was peaceful too,
Yet such as earth presents—a chequer'd peace.
From out his daughter's half-clos'd door is heard
A stifled sound! It tells not of despair,
Of agony, or of heart-rending pain ;
Yet tis the sound of death. Yes ; death has come—
Come to relieve the gentle sufferer's pangs,
And bid her spirit from its cumb'ring clay
Rise upwards to its genial native air.
One sorrow still remains—one anxious care
O'ershades at times that else unclouded face—
Her sire! Poor aged sufferer, thus bereft
Of that loved stay on which his falt'ring hand
So long had rested ! Who shall tend him now—
Who whisper to him of the better land—
Who smooth beneath his fast declining head
Death's painful pillow ? . . Peace ! believing child
Of an all-gracious Pather—prayer is heard,
Thy long-prefered, thy still unwearied prayer.
Frequent and deep are heard his anxious sighs ;
For, though old ages childishness
ssbegins s
siround
To mark his words and actus, isye oirr sorrowstir
ng
Within his riven breast.
Are gatheed, and their offspring, duteously
To share his sorrow ; and with stealthy tread
prayers,
Pass and repass from out that chamber, where
The shade of death prevails. The parent speaks,
They pause and listen softly : whisper'd
Breath'd to the sinner's friend, and Jesu's name,
With sighs of self-abasement, are the•sounds
Which reach their ear. A few more moments pass
Their sire is silent. Wake him not ! lie rests
Where earthly sounds no more can reach
eyes
ear,--
'Tis death ! but all so placid that to
Seem, as it were, but clos'd in gentle sleep.
The morrow comes, and, by her parent's side,
In sleep as placid, rests his darling child ' •
A few short hours since death had sealed his eyes,
And she, too, closes hers. No question asked—
No startling sound, to break her dying peace,
Had told his exit; and in blissful hope
Her spirit steals to everlasting rest.
Death, thou art conquered !—once again thine arm
Is palsied by the withering touch of Him
Who first encountered and despoiled thee. See !
Done is thy worst; nor can it rob the smile
From off that parent's cheek, though cold and still ;
Nor break her slumber who beside him rests.
Oh, glorious faith ! once more thou hest o'ercon3e !
Say, when her spirit, who thus peaceful lies,
Just breathed the air of Paradise, what first,
Of sight or sound, entranced with holy joyd
Her ransom'd soul ? Was it the cherish'd look,
The long-lov'd voice of him her earthly parent,
Thus sent, although uknown, to welcome her
Into those blessed seats of rest above,
And lead to His right hand whom both adored,
Where pleasures flow, in pure eternal stream?
Oh, 'tis a holy thought ! one to indulge,
With much of Heaven's bright promise. Fare ye well
As two soft clouds, ting'd by the setting sun,
And mellow'd down with countless lovely hues,
sinking side by side,
steal westward, and then,
PttWsp,Ai.Ettr,

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