Advice To A Woman Poem by Rees Prichard

O! Martha, Martha, cease thy plaintive moan -
Take comfort - check thy over frequent sighs
For thy dear babe - whom God in mercy soon
Took from this vale of tears to paradise.

This pungent grief, my sister dear, restrain,
And to lament thy darling infant cease,
Whom God snatch'd hence, from agonizing pain,
To live with Christ in everlasting peace:

A messenger was sent by God, in love,
To fetch him from amidst the vicious throng,
And bear him to the glorious realms above,
To chant forth hymns, the blessed saints among.

The very angels who convey'd of yore
The soul of Lazarus, to Abraham's breast,
Above the skies thy little infant bore
In their own arms, in endless joys to rest.

God took him to Himself, with meaning kind,
Ere sin had time his morals to defile,
Or evil converse cou'd corrupt his mind,
Or hurt his fame, by slanders dark and vile.

But now, nor seeming friend, nor open foe,
Nor slanderous reports, nor wanton jests,
Can any harm to thy dear infant do,
Since he with Christ, in peace and safety rests -

With Christ he rests, from ev'ry sense of pain,
From ev'ry misery, exempted quite -
With Christ, the Lamb, and his celestial train,
He sings the praises of the Sire of light.

Take comfort then, thy spirits elevate
Above the tumults of this earthly sphere:
Didst thou but see, in what surprizing state,
He sits with Christ, thou wou'dst not shed a tear.

Look up, and see thy child with raptur'd eyes,
Rank'd by his Saviour with the virgin train,
Who were long since admitted to the skies,
Because they kept their bodies free from stain!

Behold the linen robes, so dazzling white,
The gift of Christ! which thy sweet infant wears,
E'er since he enter'd to the realms of light ;
Not more refulgent the bright sun appears!

See there the gorgeous crown of burnish'd gold,
Which Christ upon thy infant's head has plac'd!
The sons of light in all their pomp behold,
And thy own babe with regal honours grac'd!

Behold him with the choir of angels vie,
Who paradise with countless numbers throng!
See, where his chair of state is rear'd on high,
And listen to his sweetly-vary'd song!

See, with his hands he sweeps the golden lyre,
And beats forth music from its trembling strings,
To which the praises of th' eternal Sire,
And of the Lamb, with tuneful voice he sings!

List to the sweet Hosannah's which he sings,
(How, holy, holy, holy, loud he cries!)
And Hallelujah's to the King of Kings,
E'er since he first was taken to the skies!

Behold the manna, and the fruitage sweet,
Which he among the saints of God enjoys!
Without allowance, or restraint, they eat,
And yet the plenteous banquet never cloys!

Behold the fount, whence living waters flow,
Where he his thirst may at his pleasure slake!
Who tastes them once, no thirst again shall know,
Nor ever need a second draught to take!

See there the city, where he does reside,
Whose spatious streets are pav'd with glitt'ring gold,
And all whose walls are fac'd on either side
With precious stones, amazing to behold!

Look up, and see, who his companions are!
Who but the saints, and the angelic train?
For Devil, or for man, they need not care -
Do all they can - they cannot give them pain.

The only labour, he applies him to,
Is the great sabbath to observe aright,
Among the saints - with nothing else to do,
But ever to applaud the Source of light.

Behold, no sorrow, lassitude, or pain,
No hunger, thirst, disease, or darkness, there -
But endless joys and happiness, remain,
Where thy sweet babe does now in bliss appear!

Why then lamentest thou, my sister, so?
Why stream the tears forth from thy blood-shot eyes
For him, whom God took from this vale of woe,
And plac'd in ceaseless bliss above the skies?

Why dost thou weep, so bitterly, to see
Thy Saviour snatch him from the dire distress,
That mortals, here, o'erwhelms - to set him free,
Among the bless'd, in endless happiness?

Why dost thou weep? whereas the righteous Sire
Invites him to receive a glorious crown,
And pompous honours, in his sacred quire,
Though he was not as yet to manhood grown!

God takes the pious and the just in haste,
With all his fav'rites, to their heav'nly home,
Ere they shall any of the sorrows taste,
Which on the sinful certainly shall come.

God takes unto himself those He loves best,
And often makes them leave the world, abrupt,
Lest they shou'd through injustice be opprest,
Or wicked men their morals shou'd corrupt.

Abel, though guiltless as a Lamb, was slain -
Joseph, was sold a slave, though innocent -
Daniel, a night with lions did remain -
David, a thousand troubles underwent.

Job, was at once depriv'd of all his care -
Rachel, erst mourn'd her sons in Rama slain -
Absalom died, suspended by his hair -
Who knows what death, fate shall for him ordain?

Fall'n on his sword - see, on a bleeding lies!
A halter, robs a second of his breath!
A third, o'erwhelm'd with liquor, drunken dies!
We can't too much bewail so vile a death!

'Tis sad, to see a fellow creature shot -
'Tis sad, to see him shorter by the head -
'Tis sad, to see him in a prison rot -
But 'tis not sad, to see him fairly dead.

Why shou'd a mother be o'erwhelm'd with woe,
To see her children snatch'd away with speed,
And from the pains that plague them here below,
By some well-tim'd, some kind distemper, free'd?

Let us give thanks to our immortal Sire,
When he vouchsafes so nat'ral a release,
Nor let us weep more than our hopes require,
Nor more than serves to give our nature ease:

But let us thank our Father ever-blest,
When to himself, with tender pity mov'd,
He takes, that they may find eternal rest,
From this world's miseries, his best-belov'd.

To calm thy sorrows - consolation mild
May God to thee, my sister, quickly send!
May God himself console thee for thy child!
May God to me vouchsafe so good an end!