MY SON GIVE ME THINE HEART.
My son, sweetly echoed a voice divine,
Whatever thou ownest or hopest is mine;
And what do I ask, in return, that's thine,
But give me, oh give me, thy heart? I will give, said a hypocrite, words and sighs,
With oft bended knees and uplifted eyes,
And Bibles and prayer books piled high to the skies,
But the world must have my heart. I will give said the Pharisee, tithes and alms—
For deed meritorious sweetly calms
Each stinging of conscience with hallowed balms,
But pride must have my heart. I will give, said the miser, what costs me naught;
No anchorite boasts a more saintly lot;
For I watch and I starve—cold and dark is my cot—
But my gold must have my heart. I give, said the merchant, full many a pound,
I am charity's self; but I never have found
One moment for God, for in business I'm drown'd.
And business must have my heart. I will give said the doctrinist, precious wares,
Hooks and baits for Arminian and Calvinist snares,
With pride theologic, and splitting of hairs,
But my wisdom must have my heart. Worn out, I will give, said the votary of mirth
To heaven on a death-bed, the refuse of earth;
Time enough in old age for a heavenly birth;
Now pleasure must have my heart. I will give, said a soldier, a muster roll,
And a Sunday salute; but as for my soul,
It must care for itself, for fame is my goal,
And glory must have my heart. I will give, said the statesman, with leave of the crown,
An act to build churches, or pull them down;
Whiche'er may most tend to my own renown,
For ambition must have my heart. I will give, said a hermit, a flinty cell;
I will give, said a Papist, a holy well,
I will give, said a churchman, a font and bell;
But I cannot resign my heart. Some harangue for religion, and others think;
Their colors give painters, divines their ink;
Some even from miracles will not shrink;
But, O! is the heart in these? And some give altar and incense fume,
Or missal illumined, or votive loom,
Or a cross or shrine, or a gothic tomb,
Yet the heart may be absent still. A critic presented a scholium new;
A poet a font of Castalian dew;
A seeder the fringe for a table pew;
But, O! did they give the heart? And I said the christian, what gift shall be mine?
Shall I wealth, or ambition, or pleasure resign?
Ah! scanty return for such largess divine!
Nay, take, blessed Lord, my heart. Oh take it—'tis thine—and e'en should my will
Forget in dark moment its pledge to fulfill,
In spite of my waywardness keep it still,
For 'tis thine, O my Saviour! thine. Yet naught do I yield; I renounce no gain;
I do but from toil and vexation refrain;
I resign but things worthless and fruitless and vain,
When, Saviour, I give thee my heart. And e'en upon earth would hearts fondly twine,
In a bond more than mortal—eternal—divine—
Let them vow each with each, blessed Lord, to be thine,
Yes, Jesus, we give thee our hearts.
[London Christian Observer.