jueves, 5 de mayo de 2016

JAMES MONTGOMERY [18.624]


James Montgomery 

James Montgomery (4 noviembre 1771 - 30 abril 1854) fue un poeta británico, autor de himnos y editor. Fue particularmente sensible con las causas humanitarias, como las campañas para abolir la esclavitud y poner fin a la explotación de los niños deshollinadores.

OBRA:

Verses to the memory of the late Richard Reynolds, of Bristol . 1816.
Poetical Works , four editions in 1828, 1836, 1841, and 1854
ed. The Chimney-Sweeper's Friend and Climbing-Boy's Album , London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green, 1824. Garland facsimile, intro. by Donald H. Reiman, 1978
ed. The Christian Psalmist; or, Hymns, Selected and Original , Glasgow: Chalmers and Collins, 1825. 6th edn. 1829; Read Books, 2008, ISBN 9781409799900
ed. The Christian poet; or, selections in verse on sacred subjects , Wm Collins, Glasgow, 1825
Original Hymns For Public, Private, and Social Devotion , London: Longman, Brown, Green, 1853
Sacred Poems and Hymns: For Public and Private Devotion . D. Appleton. 1854.
Prose by a Poet , 2 vols, London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, Brown and Green, 1824
Lectures on poetry and general literature . 1833.
A practical detail of the cotton manufacture of the United States of America: and the state of the cotton manufacture of that country contrasted and compared with that of Great Britain; with comparative estimates of the cost of manufacturing in both countries ... J. Niven. 1840.



La separación

Vase un amigo, y otro, y otro luégo:
 No hay vínculo suave
Que en esta vida, ajena de sosiego,
 Con el morir no acabe.
Si aquí tuviese término el camino,
Fuera mísero asaz nuestro destino.

Por cima de este valle de dolores,
 Allá, en región serena,
No marchitan los años voladores
 La vida siempre llena;
Ni son cual meteoros fugitivos
Los afectos allá, mas siempre vivos.

Por cima de este mundo hay otro mundo
 Que ausencias no conoce;
Eternidad de amor santo y profundo
 Que es de los buenos goce.
La Fe ha visto al que muere alzar el vuelo
Y allá fijar las anclas de su anhelo.

Así una, y otra, y otra, en mar lejana
 Se ocultan las estrellas,
Y más y más se enciende la mañana;
 ¿A dó se fueron ellas?
No las agobia adversa pesadumbre;
Envueltas van en piélagos de lumbre.

Traducción de Miguel Antonio Caro incluída en el libro Traducciones poéticas (1889).



La oración

La oración es voz del alma,
 Ya palabras lleve ó nó,
De una llama que arde oculta
 Generosa vibración.

Un suspiro que se exhala,
 Una lágrima de amor,
La mirada que elevamos
 Cuando vemos solo á Dios.

De la fe vital aliento,
 Familiar inspiración;
Lo primero, lo más dulce
 Que el infante balbució.

Salvaguardia del que deja
 Este valle de dolor;

Llave de oro que le abre
 Serenísima región.

El clamor regocijado
 Del que al vicio dijo adiós;
El incienso que en sus alas
 Lleva el ángel al Señor.

En palabras, mente y obras
 Los que ruegan úno son,
y en su gremio los iguala
 El divino Redentor.

Y no es sólo de la tierra
 La virtud de la oración;
Quien nos ama desde el cielo
 Intercede allá por nós.

¡Oh Verdad, Camino y Yida,
 Ejemplar de perfección!
¡Buen Jesús! á orar enseña
 Al contrito pecador.

Cual rodando van los ríos
 Hacia el mar, así veloz
Huye el tiempo, y yace el hombre
 En letárgico sopor;

Yace el hombre, hasta que suene
 La final trompeta, y ¡oh!
¡Cuál será el crujir del orbe!
 ¡Cuál la horrenda convulsión!


¡Guarda, guárdame, Dios mío,
 Mientras pasa tu furor,
y á mis súplicas concede

 La esperanza del perdón!

Nota: Traducción de Miguel Antonio Caro incluída en el libro Traducciones poéticas (1889).



Prayer Is The Soul's Sincere Desire 

Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,
Unuttered or expressed;
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath,
The Christian’s native air,
His watchword at the gates of death;
He enters heaven with prayer.

O Thou, by Whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way;
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:
Lord, teach us how to pray!

Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voice,
Returning from his ways,
While angels in their songs rejoice
And cry, “Behold, he prays!”

The saints in prayer appear as one
In word, in deed, and mind,
While with the Father and the Son
Sweet fellowship they find.

No prayer is made by man alone
The Holy Spirit pleads,
And Jesus, on th’eternal throne,
For sinners intercedes.

O Thou by Whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:
Lord, teach us how to pray. 



A Poor Wayfaring Man Of Grief 

A poor wayfaring Man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief
That I could never answer nay.
I had not power to ask his name,
Whereto he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love; I knew not why.

Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entered; not a word he spake,
Just perishing for want of bread.
I gave him all; he blessed it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again.
Mine was an angel’s portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
The crust was manna to my taste.

I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock; his strength was gone.
The heedless water mocked his thirst;
He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
I ran and raised the suff’rer up;
Thrice from the stream he drained my cup,
Dipped and returned it running o’er;
I drank and never thirsted more.

’Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof.
I heard his voice abroad and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof.
I warmed and clothed and cheered my guest
And laid him on my couch to rest;
Then made the earth my bed, and seemed
In Eden’s garden while I dreamed.

Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side.
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment—he was healed.
I had myself a wound concealed,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.

In pris’n I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor’s doom at morn.
The tide of lying tongues I stemmed,
And honored him ’mid shame and scorn.
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He asked if I for him would die.
The flesh was weak; my blood ran chill,
But my free spirit cried, “I will!”

Then in a moment to my view
The stranger started from disguise.
The tokens in His hands I knew;
The Savior stood before mine eyes.
He spake, and my poor name He named,
“Of Me thou hast not been ashamed.
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me.” 



Pentecost 

Lord God, the Holy Ghost,
In this accepted hour,
As on the day of Pentecost,
Descend in all thy power.
We meet with one accord
Within this hallowed place,
And wait the promise of our Lord,
The Spirit of all grace.

Like mighty rushing wind
Upon the waves beneath,
Move with one impulse every mind;
One soul, one feeling breathe;
The young, the old inspire
With wisdom from above;
And give us hearts and tongues of fire,
To pray, and praise, and love.

Spirit of light, explore
And chase our gloom away,
With lustre shining more and more
Unto the perfect day.
Spirit of truth, be Thou, 
In life and death, our guide:
O Spirit of adoption, now
May we be sanctified. 



A Cry From South Africa 

On building a chapel at Cape Town, for the Negro slaves of the colony, in 1828.

Afric, from her remotest strand, 
Lifts to high heaven one fetter'd hand, 
And to the utmost of her chain 
Stretches the other o'er the main: 
Then, kneeling 'midst ten thousand slaves, 
Utters a cry across the waves, 
Of power to reach to either pole, 
And pierce, like conscience, through the soul, 
Though dreary, faint, and low the sound, 
Like life-blood gurgling from a wound, 
As if her heart, before it broke, 
Had found a human tongue, and spoke. 

"Britain! not now I ask of thee 
Freedom, the right of bond and free; 
Let Mammon hold, while Mammon can, 
The bones and blood of living man; 
Let tyrants scorn, while tyrants dare, 
The shrieks and writhings of despair; 
An end will come -- it will not wait, 
Bonds, yokes, and scourges have their date, 
Slavery itself must pass away, 
And be a tale of yesterday. 

"But now I urge a dearer claim, 
And urge it by a mightier name: 
Hope of the world! on thee I call, 
By the great Father of us all, 
By the Redeemer of our race, 
And by the Spirit of all grace; 
Turn not, Britannia, from my plea; 
-- So help Thee GOD as Thou help'st me! 
Mine outcast children come to light 
From darkness, and go down in night; 
-- A night of more mysterious gloom 
Than that which wrapt them in the womb: 
Oh! that the womb had been the grave 
Of every being born a slave! 
Oh! that the grave itself might close 
The slave's unutterable woes! 
But what beyond that gulf may be, 
What portion in eternity, 
For those who live to curse their breath, 
And die without a hope in death, 
I know not, and I dare not think; 
Yet, while I shudder o'er the brink 
Of that unfathomable deep, 
Where wrath lies chain'd and judgments sleep, 
To thee, thou paradise of isles! 
Where mercy in full glory smiles; 
Eden of lands! o'er all the rest 
By blessing others doubly blest, 
-- To thee I lift my weeping eye; 
Send me the Gospel, or I die; 
The word of CHRIST's salvation give, 
That I may hear his voice and live." 







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