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Title: Musings During Affliction; Or The Search After Happiness
Author: John Castillo [
More Titles by Castillo]
“He shall fly away as a dream.” (Job. xx. 8.)
While here I sit musing alone,
Not sharing the toils of the day,
My spirit doth inwardly groan,
At the symptoms I feel of decay.
My care burden’d mind can’t be still,
Though the external fabric be maim’d;
Some part must be working the will
Of Him who that fabric hath framed.
The merchant looks over his books,
And hopes well to finish the day;
So life hath some corners and nooks,
It might not be wrong to survey.
If the morning of life we behold,
When all seems delightful and bright,
The rosebud doth scarcely unfold,
But ’tis gone as a dream of the night!
If to youth our attention we turn,
When all is enchanting and free;
When very few know how to mourn,
And all things seem pleasant and gay.
A something we sought in the fields,—
Alas! as oft sought it in vain!
The joys that such scenery yields,
Are such as we cannot retain.
We sought in the meadows and groves,
In the woods, by the rivers and streams;
But all our vain hopes and our loves,
Were like wood to the furnace’s flames!
The old pathway still puts us in mind,
Though its stones are forsaken and green,
Of youthful affections, so kind,
Though now scarce a vestige is seen!
We long have been wandering abroad,
And have learn’d to sorrow and weep;
While some have been lost on the road,
And others have sunk in the deep!
In the fire-side circle we sought,
But found by the glimmering light,
That soon as the shadows we caught;
They fled like a dream of the night!
There were some whom we knew in the flesh,
Seem’d happy, and healthy, and strong;
But before they obtain’d their wish,
They, alas! in a moment were gone!
’Twas gloomy and dark at their end,
No light in their death did appear;
That happiness would them attend,
Was hoped—but hope turn’d to despair!
Alas! how neglectful they lived,
How sad an example they set,
How many fair youths were deceiv’d,
Who are not yet free from the net!
They surely had time to repent,
To weep, and to sorrow, and pray;
But time that should thus have been spent,
Was wantonly squander’d away.
They quick were cut off at a stroke,
Were hurried away from our sight;
The bonds of their friendship all broke,
They fled like a dream of the night.
Though long in the grave they have lain,
And long since have gone to decay,
Remembrance can raise them again,
As fresh as they were in life’s day.
We remember the look of the face,
The language that glanc’d from the eye,
The cough, or the laugh, or some grace,
By which we their forms can descry.
How short our acquaintance appears,
Our pleasures, how swift was their flight!
Before we could number their years,
They fled as a dream of the night!
In manhood we sought it abroad,
And mix’d with the mirthful and gay,
When liberty lengthen’d the cord,
And tempted our feet far astray.
Then away to the races and fairs,
When seasons and friends did invite;
To the shows, to the stalls, and their wares,
And to music and dancing at night!
We sought it by land and by sea,—
Where’er we directed our eyes,
All said, “Pleasure is not in me!
My beauty is all a disguise!”
O Happiness! where dost thou dwell?
O where shall we search with success?
From the court to the cottage or cell,
All seem the abodes of distress!
Oft have we reflected with pain,
And fancied while counting the cost,
If restor’d to childhood again,
We’d recover the thing we had lost.
Then happiness seem’d to be ours,—
We roved by the river or glen;
The birds, and the bushes, and flowers,
Appear’d as a paradise then!
Yon hill, and the stone on the plain,
Remind us whenever we pass,
Where we in a fairy-like train,
Have scamper’d about on the grass!
Gone by are our childhood and youth,
And gone is each transient delight;
They told us,—who told us the truth,—
They’d pass as a dream of the night.
By the faithful discourse of a friend,
We were told, whether cloudy or bright,
This life, long or short, in the end,
Would depart as a dream of the night:—
That in vain among shadows and flowers,
We sought satisfaction within;
True pleasure could never be ours,
Till the heart had been broken for sin
The heart, until such was the case,
Was so puff’d up with pride and deceit,
That no matter how splendid the feast,
That root bitter’d every thing sweet!
He would prove by the sacred page,
And by men of experience too,
It had been so in every age,
And continues so, even till now!
Until sin was expos’d to the light,
In the glass of the Gospel was view’d,
We could not enjoy true delight,—
Till the heart had been chang’d and renew’d.
Nor need we now ask any more,
Why a thing which so many pursue,
And to gain will all things explore,
Should be truly possess’d by so few.
In all earth’s extensive domain,
’Midst all the sweet breezes that blow,
In mountain, or forest, or plain,
Where Eden like luxuries grow;—
Amid all the fair branches and free,
Inviting their clusters to share,
One tree, and only one tree,
This heav’nly manna will bear.
That tree of celestial seed,
By heav’nly culture doth rise;—
That man from his sins might be freed,
’Twas sent as a gift from the skies!
But many the tree did deride,
And oft of its fruit did complain,
Since to gain it they often had tried,
But return’d to their folly again!
They made it a matter of doubt,
That it had been planted for them:—
Repentance, and Faith were the root,
And Holiness grew on the stem!
Some as they pass’d by gave a glance,
Made remark on the wilderness bare;
And affirm’d with eye all askance,
No semblance of beauty was there.
Though to plant it the Saviour of men
Hath sorrow’d, and suffer’d, and bled;
And His Spirit pour’d out as a stream,
Hath His heav’nly influence shed.
You see, when the secret is told,
And the riddle’s expounded to all,
It was planted in Eden of old,
But had been torn up by the fall!
So Christ hath in love to His church,
Thus rear’d this plant of renown,
To screen when the sun’s rays might scorch,
And to cheer when our spirits are down.
Whoe’er of its produce partakes,
Whatever objections arise,
Through the Cross, and the choice that he makes,
Shall be holy, and happy, and wise!
Then we to His temple shall run,
And worship with joy and delight;
Our trials while under the sun,
Will pass as a dream of the night!
[The end]
John Castillo's poem: Musings During Affliction; Or The Search After Happiness
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