The Diety, a poem. ... With an introductory essay by Isaac Taylor

Preface

. To those who have seen the Author's former work, " The Incarnation and other poems," but few prefatory remarks are necessary. It may be needful, however, to state, for the information of those who have not, that this " testimony of a converted Infidel against the abounding infidelity of the age," is the production of a working me chanic ; whose principal reason for undertaking a task of such magnitude was the idea that many, who are not aware how strong are the foundations of our faith, might be induced, by its flowers and images, to go through a long train of evidence in poetry, whose minds would nauseate dry and un adorned abstract argument. The work is divided into three parts of four books each ; the first on the Being, the second on the nature, of God, the

PREFACE.

. third on God revealed : and the design of the whole is to demonstrate that the God to whose existence both nature and reason bear witness is the same Being who is revealed to us in the Holy Scriptures. Keeping in mind his original intention in the undertaking, the author (while endeavouring to select its most picturesque phase) has not entirely avoided any subject from which he thought de monstration might be gained, on account of its real or apparent prosaic nature. He is constrain ed, however, to confess that in several places in the first eight books, more especially in the latter part of the sixth, he found it required some trou ble and patience (notwithstanding the embellish ments flowed spontaneously,) to bring into good poetical measure science, philosophy, and meta physical abstractions ; and make his statements, at the same time, with such condensed clearness, that ordinary intellect might both grasp and understand them.

It may be needful to remark that the words " mode," " person," and " hypostasis," are for poetical reasons, fiequently used to express the same meaning when applied to the distinct modes of subsistence of the tri-une-God. Poetry may claim to be the natural mode of expressing those great truths that are always associated with ideas of beauty and grandeur. Perhaps it might even be affirmed that in this form only can such principles be presented, unimpaired and in full force, to the human mind : at least, it is certain that the combination of the reasoning faculty with imaginative tastes and the poetic sentiment peculiarly favours the apprehension of those sublime doctrines wherein the highest abstractions are intimately blended with conceptions of vastness, harmony, felicity, and goodness. A style rigid and severe, abhorrent of figures, and addressed solely to the reasoning powers, is indeed pro per when we have to do with physical science, or when single abstract principles of any sort are to be unfolded and pursued.

Our business in all such cases is to sever certain elements from whatever they may stand con nected with, whether in themselves, or in the natural as sociations of our own minds. But in proportion as we ascend toward a loftier sphere, and approach the highest truths, this kind of analysis becomes more and more difficult, if not absolutely impracticable ; or, if actually effected, it is at the cost and damage of the principles we are labouring to evolve. True theology cannot be brought into the form of a collection of separate and independent axioms ; for the Divine Nature, of which theology treats, is not a congeries of distinct powers and qualities, but rather the one absolute circle of all energies and virtues. Hence it happens often, that, when most we desire to present truth to other minds, or to our own, in the whole of its power and grandeur, then most we fail ; and this because, in compliance with our established philosophic methods of analysis, we labour to place asunder the elements of that nature, the attributes of which are in fact indissoluble, even in idea.

Neither the poet nor the metaphysician can speak of God in terms adequate to the subject. The best we can think or say must still be unworthy of the Infinite Being; and yet it may be that the poet, or the man of devout meditation, shall approximate to the eternal glory some degrees nearer than the most exact philosopher can do ; inasmuch as the former, by the habit of his mind, regards in the concrete that which the latter vainly endeavours to think of in the abstract. Man, created as he was in the image of God, may, within certain bounds, think rightly of his Maker, so long as he bends at once upon this contemplation the whole of his faculties and his powers of feeling ; but he will never do so by the exercise of a single faculty. The field of vision, in any one of the inlets of knowledge, is far too narrow to allow of our receiving, through that channel alone, a just conception of boundless perfections.

We can know little or nothing of the Infinite glory unless our entire nature, with the little complement of its powers, sentiments, and affec tions, be all expanded and exposed, basking in the light of heaven. The works of God, even the greatest of them, bemg finite, may be grasped and understood by finite powers, and may come under the cognizance of a single faculty. The heavens may be measured, and the celestial motions reduced to rule : not so the perfections of the Creator ; for He, being infinite, is not a compound of wisdom, power, and love ; but is himself Wisdom, and Power, and Love, absolute. In turning from the creation to the Creator, and in withdrawing the mind from things visible, and in directing it towards that which is invisible and eternal, an alternate consideration of those several perfections which we assign to the Supreme Being conveys, not merely defective, but even false notions of each ; for each is not what it seems while we are viewing it apart.

God is not to be dismembered ; but the philosophic method of pursuing truth is nothing more than a separation of elements. Those who have imbibed the modesty of genuine philosophy will not be reluctant to admit that the first and greatest of all truths stands excepted from the range of that logic which we properly apply to all inferior truths. We may catch for an instant, or by a momentary concentration of our moral and rational consciousness, dim conceptions of the Divine Nature, such as we shall never be able to bring under scientific definition ; and yet these evanescent impressions, though not to be distinctly embodied in words, may, in part at least, transpire through the language we employ when tra vailing with sacred themes. Or, if nothing more is done, the poet, or the meditative writer, may, even when he feels to have failed, yet kindle in other bosoms a fire, which, being cherished, shall ascend as a flame to heaven.

The poet, then, shall perhaps outstrip the theologian and the philosopher in essaying the attributes of Him whose perfections indissolubly combine whatever reason can grasp, whatever the imagination can conceive, and whatever the moral sense apprehends. The poet, in undertaking a task of this exalted order, implicitly professes, not merely to follow in the track of philosophy, and to gather up the flowers she may have forgotten ; but to lead the way whither science dares not go, and to make an inroad upon the vast unknown. Or, if so high an ambition would be disclaimed, he at least proposes to lend his aid to other and less adventurous minds, in reaching that bright sphere where great objects are seen to be great, and where the symmetry and beauty of truth are beheld from a vantage point. It is in fact always from some such position that we gain, if at all, an enhancement of our faith in things unseen.

Powerful convictions, on whatever subject, are drawn from considering the objects of them in the con crete, rather than analytically, or in the abstract, and it is especially so in religion. Even the beauty and order of the material world, distinctly as it speaks of the divine wisdom and goodness, does not powerfully impress the mind with the belief of a Being near us, who is at work, producing, sustaining, and renewing all, until after we have, through other channels, received a moral impression of the Divine Personality. When by medi tation, and the mental habits consequent upon devotion, we have learned to think of God as the Invisible Father of our spirits — the Hearer of prayer — the Lord of con science— the Ruler of the world — the Disposer of events, and the Centre of hope, — it is then that the mechanism of nature, and the beauty of her garb, and the beneficence displayed in the great system of life sensibly affect the soul, and become articulate.

First be acquainted with the Author of the world, and discern Him by spiritual perceptions, and then " day unto day will utter speech, and night unto night shew know ledge." Whoever needs or imagines that he needs scientific demonstration of the being and attributes of the Deity, will assuredly seek for it elsewhere than in a poem. The poet assumes in his readers what he must possess himself, or he would be no poet, namely — those unso phisticated sensibilities and that genuine and vigorous good sense which, with the spectacle of nature before us, supersede the forms of rigid argumentation. And so, as he advances to the interior of his subject, and comes to speak of the great mysteries of the Gospel, that state of mind must be supposed which is necessary to the perception of these higher truths.

To establish them on biblical evidence is the business of the theologian. To exhibit them in their majesty and force is a task which the poet may undertake ; and he acquits himself well if he actually enhances the convictions, and animates the pious affections of those who already possess, or are prepared to receive, the elements of faith. We claim then for the christian poet a proper place, and a peculiar function, on the broad field of sacred truth ; and we affirm too, that his conceptions and his glowing emotions in relation to beauty and sublimity, give him a special advantage on this ground. We must not however be thought to fall into the extravagance of thinking that the Poet can change places with the Christian Teacher, or that his office can have a universal aspect. All men are immortal, all are liable to future judgment, and all, without distinction of personal dispositions or tastes, are to be appealed to as equally concerned in the proposals of mercy.

But it is a class only to whom the poet can, with any expectation of suc cess, address himself. The imagination, and the finer sensibilities connected with it, are, in not a few minds, mere rudiments, inert and never to be aroused. Never theless the proportion of those who might be awakened to the pleasures of taste is perhaps greater than we sometimes think ; and it is certainly an error to suppose that poetry is a luxury proper for the opulent and the educated, and which can be relished only by those who have plenty of leisure. The contrary is a fact fully established, and established, among ourselves by more than a few illustrious instances of genius making its way from the humblest rank, through all obstacles, to the hio-h ground of fame. Independently of other evidence of the fact, it may be assumed as certain that the class, whether high or low, which produces -poets, contains also many who are, or who might be, readers of poetry.

It is a fair pre sumption that where there is one poet, there are hundreds of lovers of verse. A Burns, a Bloomfield, and others easily named, prove what one would fain believe, that among the tens of thousands crowded around the steam engine, as well as among our rural population, toil, privation, and care, have not altogether crushed fine sensibilities, nor prevented the expansion of delicate and ennobling tastes. His proper merits apart, (of which the public has already agreed to think highly) the author of the poem now given to the world will be hailed by enlightened lovers of their country, and by every philanthrophist, as coming forward to furnish implicit, yet conclusive, evidence on the question, whether the British manufacturing economy, heavily as it presses upon the operative class, is actually as incompatible as it may seem with that per sonal dignity, intelligence, and feeling of which we must mourn to see any of our fellovv-men and brethren hope lessly deprived.

The tremendous manufacturing system of modern times, still untried as it is in the whole of the influence it may exert over our national destinies, does not (as we see) necessarily degrade and vilify the parties whose physical agency puts it in movement. Even if we had no other proof, we have one now, not merely that a mechanic may think and feel as a poet and a philosopher; but (which is of more moment) that mechanics may do so ; and that many who ply the shuttle, or urge the furnace, are members of the intellectual and literary commonwealth, and moreover stand ready to receive the benefit of any generous and well concerted endeavours that might be made for laying open to them the intellectual wealth with which the English language is fraught. A while ago any attempt to bring the higher doctrines of science within the range of the artizan would have been thought utterly chimerical.

Or what would have seemed more unlikely to take place than that men occupying the first rank in the several departments of philosophy, should be heard announcing their latest discoveries in abstruse science to penny purchasers, and should be seen inviting, not collegians but cotta gers, not Oxford and Cambridge, but Manchester and Leeds, to climb with them the steep ascents of know ledge ! What is now doing, and with much success, in dif fusing physical and mathematical science, should encou rage parallel enterprises in relation to elegant literature. We ought to adjudge it an unfounded and illiberal prejudice which would frown upon any such endeavours. Our fellow countrymen of the labouring class, let us believe it, are more of men than we, in our self-conceit and pride, may have thought them.

Burdened indeed, and care worn, but not crushed, they would communi cate with us, in whatever cheers, refines, and ennobles existence ; nay, would perhaps generously contend with us for the laurels of literary and philosophic fame. Far from wishing jealously to repress this ambition, those competent to do so would use every means in their power to cherish it. If we would fain abate the fruitless and dangerous vehemence of political feeling, and would gladly soften the ferocity belonging to im patient penury and despair, let the tepid streams of literature, as well as the invigorating currents of science, be set in flow over the levels of society ; let intellectual tastes be awakened, and let the mild pleasures of the imagination be copiously supplied with materials. The zealous friends of religion need not fear lest, in such undertakings, Christianity should be superseded or forgotten.

Christianity is in peril on many sides rather than on the side of popular intelligence ; and our solicitude for truth might be better directed than in anxiously watching the advances of knowledge. Know ledge must advance, and our only reasonable fear is lest it should be poisoned at the spring. To preclude so fatal a mischief, and it is an evil that has actually occurred in other countries, and to some extent in our own, prompt and efficacious encouragement should be afforded to whatever is found to be free from the taint we dread ; and much more to whatever breathes the purity of truth. A noble sort of devotion would it be at the present moment, when the popular mind is quickeninoint0 life, for men of genius who are free to choose their course, and may undertake what task they will, to forget the gilded laurels they might win elsewhere, and to covet rather the wreath of civic oak, conferred by the suffrage of the grateful many — the sons of toil and care.

Let the experiment be tried of writing on the loftiest themes, and yet in a style that should recommend those themes to the thinking and the feeling portion of the common people. Let our artizans and mechanics be furnished with elevated, generous, and genuine sentiments, em bodied expressly for their use in pure and majestic En glish, by the masters of thought and language. Works of this sort would be labours worthy of patrician minds, and sure of immortality. — Professors of physical science are already so employed ; why may not poets and the leaders of our general literature follow their example ? A condescension of this sort (if indeed it be ever a condescension on the part of man to labour for the benefit of his fellows) would not fail to be responded to by the native genius that lies unknown or unquick ened among the people.

Works such as the one now given to the public, xthe production of gifted minds, struggling against their lot, would not unfrequently enrich our language ; and ere long we should possess a literature such as the world has never yet seen, created for The People, and by them. In such a literature, if indeed we are to see it pro duced, it is not hazardous to predict for the Author of the Poem which occupies this volume a prominent and honourable place. Stanford Rivers, August 1, 1834.

Part I. The Being Of

A GOD ASSERTED BY CREATION AND PROVIDENCE. One Almighty is. From whom all things proceed. Milton. The object of this first portion of this Poem is to prove the existence of a self-living, infinite Intelligence, notwithstanding all the cavils of the atheist. I have treated the subject somewhat at large (though aiming at brevity), in order to combat all the jnain objections hitherto brought forward. I do not pretend that all the modes of argument made use of are my own ; some of them, indeed, are, in a great degree, borrowed ; nor do I esteem it plagiarism, in a work like this, to make use of what light the profound researches of others have thrown upon the subject, provided the classification of the materials, and the poetical illustrations, be original. But, as I wish to give all due praise to those who, under God's blessing, have laboured hard for the edification of their fellow-men, I would here mention that the principal assistance met with in this part of the work has been from the writings of Messrs. Allin, Unwin, Drew, and Barclay. THE DEITY

Book I Analysis

The general subject of the poem proposed, with an opening Address to the Deity. — A Summer Landscape drawn. — The Thanksgiving of all lesser created Objects, and Man's sceptical Refusal to join the general Song. — The comparative Happiness of the Christian and the Infidel. — Hasty review of Nature, and enquiry after its Origin. — Closer Investigation of Me same, with the Evidence it furnishes of Contrivance and Design. THE DEITY.

BOOK I.

Great Power Supreme ! of life the Fountain-spring, Of life and all things ; whose Almighty hana Has deck'd immensity with countless worlds, To tell of thine existence ; — Increate, Ineffable, I AM ! assist my tongue To sing, and on me shed Thine influence down In rich profusion ; while my daring muse, Though young, and unsupplied with classic lore From those full stores of learning where the youth Of Britain bask in its delightful beams, Uplifts itself to Thee. To Thee my song Aspires. Thy kindly hand, great God of love, That reach'd from the empyreal realms of bliss B To hell, and manhood in its grasp upbore — Snatch'd me, a rebel, from destruction's jaws, When I denied Thee. And shall I be dumb, And look with cold indifference on the scene, While thousands still run wildly in the paths Where late my footsteps moved ; blaspheme Thy name, And seek for knowledge of all else but Thee .

Ah no! the great, the' exalted task be mine, To shew from nature its primeval source ; Through finite things to trace the Infinite ; To testify His word's unfailing truth, Despite the' aspersions of its vaunting foes ; And sing His praise who taught me first to sing. Awake my harp ! the tide of poesy Comes rushing oe'r my soul. Continual toil And penury. may, through the day's long hours, Enchain the spirit of inspiring song : But when the busy world is hush'd in sleep, Scorning all shackles of an earthly kind, She sallies forth in freedom. Uncontroll'd Then spreads her wings, exulting, on the air ; O'er land and flood impetuous sweeps along ; And, as sole empress of the midnight hour, Claims all things for her own. Awake, my harp The noblest theme that ever mortals sang Demands thy tuneful strains.

To God ! to God ! Uplift thy voice on high ! Of Him I sing Whose uncreated glories shine so fair In the bright mirror of created things ; Of Him, who, ere the birth of ancient Time, Or ere Duration yet had burst the womb Of old Eternity ; ere suns and worlds Ecstatic smil'd, or Chaos wildly roared, In the wide regions of this great immense — Existed, ever living Source of all. The Deity ! The vast, stupendous thought Demands the utmost stretch of every power Of intellect to compass it : but, stretch'd To all their width, our mental faculties Can no more grasp it than the hand of Time Can grasp Eternity. I gaze around On nature : I behold the various forms Of being ; from the grass beneath my feet, To man, the sovereign of all things below, World, sun, and system ; through ethereal realms I see ten thousand times ten thousand suns Revolving on in their majestic course, Uncheck'd, unstay'd, unalter'd ; and can read In these His name who made and guides the whole "These are Thy glorious works; Parent of Good, Almighty !

Thine this universal frame ! " Yet these are but Thy works. Thy awful self How great ! how wonderful ! the universe Is but, as 'twere, the throne on which thou sitt'st, Clothed in the garments of Omnipotence, Crowned with a wreath of uncreated light," b I Begirt with truth, and holding in Thine hand The sceptre of all rule. Dread Power ! dread King Musing on Thee, I shrink to nothingness : And this round world, where all my fathers dwelt, This world, where Thou wast "manifest in flesh," Redeemer, Renovator, Prince of Peace, Seems but an atom floating in the beams Of day's resplendent orb. Awake ! awake ! Enthusiastic rapture ! " Lend your wings," Archangels ! Higher ! higher let me rise • Up to the heaven of heavens, and see my God In vision full. The great Eternal draws His veil aside ! The stars are lost in light !

Heaven's brightest suns in their meridian strength Look dim ! Angelic and seraphic hosts Cover their faces with their spreading wings, And low, in adoration, bow their heads Before Him : while the sceptre of His hands Displays the essence of His sovereign power, The spell by which He governs finite things, The fountain-source of his creative acts, — There written in eternal day-beams — Love. The grateful incense of a myriad worlds Rises before Him in one fragrant cloud ; And every spanglet in immensity Catches the glance of His observant eye. Oh, glory ! Light of all material light ! Life of all life ! Strength of all strength ! Great spring Of being, and all good that being yields ! On Thee the muse would fondly fix her eyes ; But, dazzled by thy bright effulgent beams, She sinks to earth again. — And not for thee, Aspiring muse, are regions fair as these, When scarce commenced is thy long scene of toil.

Through nature we must trace our arduous way, And shew Jehovah as its sovereign Lord, Ere yet we stand before His flaming throne, And join the hymn of sacred rapture there. A philosophic task indeed ; but one Not unpoetic, while the smiling fields Of this creation sparkle bright with flowers. Oh ! Thou Eternal ! Thou Almighty One ! In whom, and of whom, all things are and were ; My God ! my Father ! with indulgent eye Upon the imperfections of the song Look down (as what can in perfection come From one so frail?) ; and should thy goodness aught Of wisdom deign me, and Thy powerful hand Use these my feeble lines as instruments Of lasting good, then, while my tongue sends forth The incense of a grateful heart to Thee, Be all the glory Thine, whose sovereign grace Has taught those lips, once touch'd with gall,Thy praise. 'Tis summer ; down the slope the lordly sun Refulgent moves ; his fierce enkindling beams Shoot thro' the heaven askance with scorching power, As though intent each landscape to despoil Of charms they gave : but, loaded with the sweets Of herbs and flowrets odoriferous, Shed on its wings, the gently rising gale Softens the else oppressive heat, and keeps The drowsy senses waking.

Nature looks Lovely. The hills arrayed in various shades Of eye-invigorating green ; — the vales, Rife with the most luxuriant fruits of love, Borne to the ever-wooing orb of light, Though oft hid from his eye, while o'er the tops Of mountains darts a gleam of ecstacy ,- — The woodlands, blooming in their thousand hues ; — The winding river, now exposed to sight, Now hid by thickets, or the sudden slope Of intervening hills (as memory's lines, Drawn over sunny landscapes rich and fair, Are parted oft by lowering clouds of woe, In which the soul scarce dares to force its way, Lest, haply, the intrusive step should wake The slumbering lightnings from their darksome beds, Rousing deep feeling from its hiding-place) — The scattered haunts of men — the villages Irregularly built — and lofty spires, Like wisdom's finger, pointing up to heaven, — Present a prospect pleasing to the eye, And waken in the ever conscious heart Feelings of lively transport.

All is joy ; And animated beings, — most of all The feather'd race, the choristers of day, — Utter their raptures in one mingled song. But wherefore sing they — wherefore pour on air Their notes mellifluent ? — why murmurs thus The river in its winding course ? why hum The insect tribes ? ye woodland melodists, Is love your only theme ? Do ye but tell, In strains I've oft delighted stopp'd to hear, When strolling down some solitary lane To hold communion with myself and God, Your fondness in each other's listening ears ? Are all thy murmurings but to boast, oh Trent, Thy current's strength as swift it moves along ; Or fright some truant boy, who, starting, " hears, Or thinks he hears," the spirits of the flood Singing their dirges in those hollow sounds ? Do ye but hum, ye busy tribes of things Who flit so thickly in the sunny ray, To pitch the key for some fond mocking child, Who imitates you as he listless strays ?

Ah no ! these sing Jehovah's lofty praise, And tell His goodness, undeserv'd, unbought, Who " satisfies each living thing's desire, And clothes the earth with fatness;" while proud man, More highly favoured, his vicegerent here, Denies the tribute of a grateful song, thinks his praise a burden. Lord most High ! Is he then not Thy debtor ? Has he nought, For which to praise Thee ? Can he gaze around, On nature's beauteous frame, behold the hills Lift their green heads on high to kiss the clouds That bring them the refreshing showers, the fields, In undulating plenty, smiling fair, And gardens rich with vegetable stores, — And see nought here ? or can he look on home, His dear, dear home (for home must needs be dear, If human feeling in his bosom dwell), And find no cause of fond excitement there ?

Brings love no pleasure I Does that small remains Of thy bright image, once so perfect borne, Awake no joy to draw forth all his powers In gratitude and love to Him that gave ? Has he a tender partner, one whose life Is his life ? Has he children, buds of joy Just opening, like young flow'rets, to perfume His paths with richest sweets, unknown before ? " These are Thy gifts," Thou Giver of all good, From whom all true substantial bliss proceeds, And these demand that strain so oft denied. And sweet it is to praise Thee : sweet to live Dependent on Thy aid ; sweet 'tis to love And fear Thee; and ah ! who that from the soul Has called Thee father, and has felt the chain Of filial love fast binding him to Thee, Could wrench the staple forth that closely holds The first link to his bosom, and not feel The gush of life-blood from the deep, deep wound Or ever find those orifiees filled, Except by that which he had wrench'd away _ Oh ! there are joys the Christian's bosom knows Which others cannot know.

He has a peace That nothing can destroy, — the peace of God Which passeth understanding ; — he, a hope That not the clods of earth flung over him Can smother, when the dews of death descend, And in the narrow house are laid at last The poor remains of his mortality ; A hope that holds him up till death, nor then Could it deceive him, would the unfelt loss Prevent annihilation's soft repose. And he possesses love, of strength unknown, A love which all creation cannot bound, A spark of fervour from the Eternal mind, Ascending ever to its Parent Source ! And what hast thou, oh sceptic ! to return, If we would give up immortality For the vain pleasures of this passing scene ? — What recompense hast thou for joys like these ? A freedom from restraint ; a liberty To let licentious [Mission run its length, Without the dread of a requiting hand ; b freedom from the fear of waking up To judgment, from our last, long, dreamless sleep ?