My soul is caught: Heaven’s sovereign blessings, clustering from the _cross_, Rush on her in a throng, and close her round, The prisoner of amaze!--In his blessed life I see the path, and, in His death, the price, And in His great ascent, the proof supreme Of immortality. _Young._ Man, know thyself; all wisdom centres there, To none man seems ignoble but to man; Angels that grandeur, men o’erlook, admire, How long shall human nature be their book, Degenerate mortal! and unread by thee? The beam dim reason sheds, shows wonders there; What high contents! illustrious faculties! But the grand comment which displays at full Our human height, scarce sever’d from divine, By heaven composed, was publish’d on the _cross_. _Young._ There, where the _cross_ in hoary ruin nods, And weeping yews o’ershade the lettered stones; While midnight silence wraps these dark abodes, And soothes me, wand’ring o’er my kindred bones; Let kindled fancy view the glorious morn, When from the bursting graves the dust shall rise, All nature smiling; and, by angels borne, Messiah’s _cross_, far blazing o’er the skies. _Mickle._ Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies; He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies; And he that will be cheated to the last, Delusions strong as hell shall bind him fast. But if the wanderer his mistake discern, Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, Bewildered once, must he bewail his loss For ever and for ever? No--the _cross_! There, and there only, (though the Deist rave, And Atheist, if earth bear so base a slave;) There, and there only, is the power to save. There no delusive hope invites despair; No mockery meets you, no delusion there; The spells and charms that blinded you before, All vanish there, and fascinate no more. _Cowper._ The _cross_ once seen is death to every vice: Else He that died there suffered all His pain, Bled, groaned, and agonized, and died, in vain. _Cowper._ Thou who for me didst feel such pain, Whose precious blood the _cross_ did stain, Let not those agonies be vain. _Roscommon._ Guide me there, for here I burn To make my Saviour some return. I’ll rise (if that will please thee, still, And sure I’ve heard thee own it will;) I’ll trace His steps and bear my _cross_, Despising every grief and loss: Since He, despising pain and shame, First took up His, and did the same. _Parnell._