Staunton Spectator, And General Advertiser

POETRY.

THE MORE CONVENIENT SEASON.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Alone he sat and wept. That very night
The ambassador of God, with earnest zeal
Of eloquence, had warned him to repent;
And, like the Roman at Drusilla's side,
Hearing the truth, he trembled. Conscience wrought,
Yet sin allured. The struggle shook him sore.
The dim lamp waned—the hour of midnight tolled;
Prayer sought for entrance, but the heart had closed
Its diamond valve. He threw him on his couch,
And bade the Spirit of his God depart.
But there was war within him, and he sighed
"Depart not utterly, thou Blessed One!
Return, when youth is past, and make my
Soul forever thine."
With kindling brow he trod
The haunts of pleasure, while the viol's voice,
And beauty's smile, his joyous pulses woke.
To love he knelt, and on his brow she hung
Her freshest myrtle wreath. For gold he sought,
And winged Wealth indulged him till the world
Pronounced him happy. Manhood's vigorous prime
Swelled to its climax, and his busy days
And restless nights swept like a tide away.
Care struck deep root around him, and each shoot
Still striking earthward, like the Indian tree,
Shut out with woven shades the eye of Heaven,
When lo! a message from the Crucified :
"Look unto me, and live!" Pausing he spake
Of weariness and haste, and want of time,
And duty to his children, and besought
A longer space to do the work of Heaven.
God spake again, when age shed its snows
On his wan temples, and the palsied hand
Shrank from gold gathering. But the rigid chain
Of habit bound him, and he still implored
A more convenient season!
"See, my step
Is firm and free: my unquenched eye delights
To view this pleasant world; and life with me,
May last for many years. In the calm hour
Of lingering sickness, I can better fit
For vast Eternity."
Disease approached,
And reason fled. The maniac strove with death,
And grappled like a fiend, with shrieks and cries,
Till darkness smote his eye-ball, and thick ice
Closed in around his heart-strings.
The poor clay
Lay vanquished and distorted. But the soul
The soul whose promised season never came,
To hearken to his Maker's call, had gone
To weigh his sufferance with his own abuse,
And bide the audit.