WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF THE LATE
(By one who knew and loved him.)
WHOE'ER thou art whose eye may hither bend,
If thou art human, here behold a friend.
Art thou of Christ's disciples?—he was one
Like him whose bosom Jesus leant upon :
Art thou a sinner burthened with thy grief?
His life was spent proclaiming sin's relief:
Art thou an unbeliever? - he could feel
Much for the patient whom he could not heal.
Whate'er thy station, creed, condition be,
This man of God has cared and prayed for thee.
Do riches, honours, pleasures, smile around?
He could have shewn thee where alone is found
Their true enjoyment - -on the Christian plan
Of holiness to God and love to man.
Are poverty, disease, disgrace, despair,
The ills, the anguish to which flesh is heir,
Thy household inmates?—Yea, even such as thee
He hailed as brothers of humanity;
And gave his hand and heart, and toiled, and pled, Till nakedness was clothed, and hunger fed;
Till pain was soothed, and even the fiend Despair Felt that a stronger arm than his was there.
And ye, far habitants of heathen lands,
For you he raised his voice and stretched his hands;
And taught new-wakened sympathy to start
With generous throb through many a British heart,—
Till wide o'er farthest oceans waved the sail
That bade in Jesus' name the nations hail,
And Afric's wastes and wildered Hindostan
Heard the glad tidings of Good will to man.'
Such was his public ministry. And they
Through life who loved him till his latest day,
Of many a noble, gentle trait can tell
That, as a man, friend, father, marked him well :
The frank simplicity; the cordial flow
Of kind affections; the enthusiast glow
That love of Nature or his Native Land
Would kindle in those eyes so bright and bland;
The unstudied eloquence that from his tongue
Fell like the fresh dews by the breezes flung
From fragrant woodlands; the benignant look
That like a rainbow beamed through his rebuke -
Rebuke more dreaded than a despot's frown,
For sorrow more than anger called it down;
The winning way, the kindliness of speech
With which he wont the little ones to teach,
As round his chair like clustering doves they clung -
For, like his MASTER, much he loved the young.
These, and unnumbered traits like these, my verse Could fondly dwell upon : but o'er his hearse A passing wreath I may but stop to cast, Of love and grateful reverence the last Poor token. Weeping mourners here Perchance may count such frail memorial dear, Though vain and valueless it be to him
Who tunes his golden harp amidst the seraphim!
I FOUND a stream among the hills by night;
Its source was hidden, and its end unknown;
But Heaven was in its bosom, and the throne,
Which there the sun fills beautifully bright,
Here held the lesser and the lovelier light:
Nor seemed the excelling beauty less alone,
Because the stars, her handmaids, round her shone,
And homelier Earth did with the throng unite.
I thought not of its source nor of its ending;
'Twas but the mirror of enchanting things,
Where Heaven and Earth, their softest graces blend
Owned the New World which from their union
Thus be my soul Truth's purified abode:
Whence or for what I am, is thine, O God!
BY THE AUTHOR OF LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.'
He set out on foot, with a small Hebrew Bible slung from his belt; and being light in body, and full of spirits, he performed the journey with great ease.---M'Crie.
WITH step how buoyant, and with heart how light,
Young scholar! didst thou urge thy jocund way
Toward that famed city, erst the pride and stay
Of learning, faith, and freedom. O what bright,
What glorious visions rose upon thy sight,
As on thou journey'dst! Scripless, purseless tho',
And all unknown,—yet, in the vernal glow
Of thy young powers, exulting in their might,
Felt thou not pleasures, far surpassing aught
That he who feasts with kings can ever know?
The lofty purpose - the aspiring thought-
The elastic spirit — vehement to shew
Its latent strength: Yes, these were thine; and we May well, young scholar! trace how bright thy course would be.
He was consigued to the Tower; where, during ten months' rigorous imprisonment, without writing materials, he amused himself by composing Latin verses, which he wrote on the wall of his cell with the tongue of his shoe buckle.---M'Crie.
They put thee into prison: thy proud mind
Scorned their weak malice; 'twas alike to thee,
The captive's doom, or the wild liberty
The mountaineer possesses; for, resigned
To the high will of Heaven, the lot assigned
By Infinite Wisdom gladly didst thou bear:
No threats could quell thy courage, nor could care
Of future ills in thy breast harbour find.—
O scholar! patriot! Christian! how may we
Envy that resolute will, and spirit high!
Old and in prison, friend nor counsellor nigh,
Yet did bright dreams gild thy captivity,
And thy loved Muse lulled thee with lays as sweet, As when towards Leman's lake thou prest with youthful feet.
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