Solemn Musing In A Storm Poem by Thomas Odiorne

Mercy! what light'ning! and an afterclap
So soon, excites an awful dread!—the thought
Of a hereafter!—an eternal world!
Again! how instant, forky, terrible!
It pierces to the very soul's recess
With an electric shock. Dark glooms the sky;
The rain loud patters on the roof; winds rush;
And louder still a heavier deluge pours.

As there exists a God who rules the storm;
And as in him for mercy I confide;
Why not as safe beneath the thunder's bolt,
As guarded, as beneath the sun's mild beam?
But what if he should take me hence at once?
(As I am in his power, and at his will
'Twere but to speed the dart prepar'd for me;
And, should it come to-day, it would but meet
The present; ten years hence it would no more.
A few successive objects in the mind,
A few more pleasures, and a few more pains,
Will make the future, with its products, then,
As real as the present, now. Alas!
And is there no exemption from the grave?

With what a dread I yield to the decree!
O! in the uttermost extremity,
May he, the Just One, fill my soul with peace!
His gift, of conscious solace to the soul,
Supplants those fears which render man a slave;
And come to him who has it, terror's king,
Sooner or later, when, or where, or how,
'Twere ne'er amiss, as by the will divine.

With all thy gifts and honors, what, O life!
Is thy amount? 'Tis but a fragile hold
Of a precarious tenure of abode,
A transient durance of delight and pain.
The former makes existence to be priz'd;—
But doom'd, as some are, to perpetual wo,
Within this bourne of care, and house of tears—
Who, without hope of change, would wish to live?
Ah! without hope of change, indeed who would?
For in this irksome wilderness of time,
Chok'd up and stinted in a barren soil,
What plant can gain perfection? But with eye
Fix'd on the future good, we overlook,
Or views as trivial in comparison,
The transient evils of the present life;
While, for the pangs of mind which we endure,
There is a cure at option. What is that?—
A will resign'd, a trust in the Supreme;
The sole substantial relish in the cup

Of bitter sorrows. 'Tis a mental balm;
A moral medicine; a peace in wo.
Nought else can turn affliction into joy.
Is there a man, a prey to deep distress,
Void of that trust? What precept, what advice,
Shall be administer'd? Forgetfulness?
Alas! Philosophy? As well might one
Talk to the reckless winds, as argue him
Out of his grief for a lost child. Indeed,
So inconsolable is he, it seems
As if to temp'ral fondnesses he hung,
As his salvation's hope. But there are souls,
So merg'd within the will of the Supreme,
So panoply'd against the shafts of time,
They seem quite enter'd into rest this side
The grave. With passions wean'd from earth, and thoughts
Above the events of life, they have a source,
A never-failing source, of joy divine.

'Tis Hope that thus attaches us to life,
By promises more sweet than fancy's dreams
Of bounteous bliss from fortune's casual turns.
Advis'd by Prudence, on the plausive ground
Of waiting for a prospect opportune,
That Expectation may success ensure,
We take a draft on Time. When due, the knave
Declares it forgery. We make protest,
Return the bill; when Hope, in smiling mien,
Redeems her pledge, as is her usual way—
In coin? Oh no! by bills new drawn on Time.
We trust her still, and still to be deceiv'd.

Thus, in pursuit of promises ne'er met,—
Th' expense of protest, int'rest, postages,
Augment the balance to a debt of chance,
Till Expectation becomes bankrupted;
Unless, as sometimes 'tis the case, kind Faith,
In pity to the pensioners of time,
Steps in between, and cancels the demand,
By an exchange, at sight, upon the House
Of Heaven. No longer a deceiver, Hope
Becomes the comforter of pilgrims. On
Her wings, she bears them o'er each miry place,
To pleasant paths; and, at their journey's end,
Wafts them as lightly as the mist of morn,
O'er the dark vale and awful gulf of death.