Religious and Moral Poems | Page 6

that
ev'n a God can give,
He freely offer'd to the num'rous throng,
That
on his lips with list'ning pleasure hung.
"Take him, ye wretched, for
your only good,
"Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;
"Ye
thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
"Ye preachers, take him for
your joyful theme;
"Take him my dear Americans, he said,
"Be
your complaints on his kind bosom laid:
"Take him, ye Africans, he
longs for you,
"Impartial Saviour is his title due:
"Wash'd in the
fountain of redeeming blood,
"You shall be sons, and kings, and
priests to God."
Great Countess,* we Americans revere
Thy name,
and mingle in thy grief sincere;
New England deeply feels, the
Orphans mourn,
Their more than father will no more return.
But,
though arrested by the hand of death,
Whitefield no more exerts his
lab'ring breath,

Yet let us view him in th' eternal skies,
Let ev'ry
heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred
trust,
Till life divine re-animates his dust.
*The Countess of Huntingdon, to whom Mr. Whitefield was
Chaplain.
On the Death of a young Lady of Five Years

of Age.
FROM dark abodes to fair etherial light
Th' enraptur'd innocent has
wing'd her flight;
On the kind bosom of eternal love
She finds
unknown beatitude above.
This known, ye parents, nor her loss
deplore,
She feels the iron hand of pain no more;
The dispensations
of unerring grace,
Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;
Let
then no tears for her henceforward flow,
No more distress'd in our
dark vale below,
Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,
Was
quickly mantled with the gloom of night;
But hear in heav'n's blest
bow'rs your Nancy fair,
And learn to imitate her language there.

"Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown'd,
"By what sweet
name, and in what tuneful sound
"Wilt thou be prais'd? Seraphic
pow'rs are faint
"Infinite love and majesty to paint.
"To thee let all
their graceful voices raise,
"And saints and angels join their songs of
praise."
Perfect in bliss she from her heav'nly home
Looks down,
and smiling beckons you to come;
Why then, fond parents, why these
fruitless groans?
Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.

Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,
Why would you
wish your daughter back again?
No--bow resign'd. Let hope your
grief control,
And check the rising tumult of the soul.
Calm in the
prosperous, and adverse day,
Adore the God who gives and takes
away;
Eye him in all, his holy name revere,
Upright your actions,
and your hearts sincere,
Till having sail'd through life's tempestuous
sea,
And from its rocks, and boist'rous billows free,
Yourselves,
safe landed on the blissful shore,
Shall join your happy babe to part
no more.
On the Death of a young Gentleman.
WHO taught thee conflict with the pow'rs of night,
To vanquish satan
in the fields of light?
Who strung thy feeble arms with might
unknown,
How great thy conquest, and how bright thy crown!
War
with each princedom, throne, and pow'r is o'er,
The scene is ended to

return no more.
O could my muse thy seat on high behold,
How
deckt with laurel, how enrich'd with gold!
O could she hear what
praise thine harp employs,
How sweet thine anthems, how divine thy
joys!
What heav'nly grandeur should exalt her strain!
What holy
raptures in her numbers reign!
To sooth the troubles of the mind to
peace,
To still the tumult of life's tossing seas,
To ease the anguish
of the parents heart,
What shall my sympathizing verse impart?

Where is the balm to heal so deep a wound?
Where shall a sov'reign
remedy be found?
Look, gracious Spirit, from thine heav'nly bow'r,

And thy full joys into their bosoms pour;
The raging tempest of their
grief control,
And spread the dawn of glory through the soul,
To
eye the path the saint departed trod,
And trace him to the bosom of
his God.
To a Lady on the Death of her Husband.
GRIM monarch! see, depriv'd of vital breath,
A young physician in
the dust of death:
Dost thou go on incessant to destroy,
Our griefs
to double, and lay waste our joy?
Enough thou never yet wast known
to say,
Though millions die, the vassals of thy sway:
Nor youth, nor
science, not the ties of love,
Nor ought on earth thy flinty heart can
move.
The friend, the spouse from his dire dart to save,
In vain we
ask the sovereign of the grave.
Fair mourner, there see thy lov'd
Leonard laid,
And o'er him spread the deep impervious shade.

Clos'd are his eyes, and heavy fetters keep
His senses bound in
never-waking sleep,
Till time shall cease, till many a starry world

Shall fall from heav'n, in dire confusion hurl'd
Till nature in her final
wreck shall lie,
And her last groan shall rend the azure sky:
Not, not
till then his active soul shall claim
His body, a divine immortal frame.

But see the softly-stealing tears apace
Pursue each other down the
mourner's face;
But cease thy tears, bid ev'ry sigh depart,
And cast
the load of anguish from thine heart:
From the cold shell of his great
soul arise,
And look beyond, thou native of the skies;
There fix thy

view, where fleeter than the wind
Thy Leonard mounts, and leaves
the earth behind.
Thyself prepare to