But the wicked, alas, when their sentence shall pass, Shall at once into darkness be driven, Fierce pains to endure with spirits impure, Who were hurl'd from their places in heaven!
Oh, if thou dost crave above all things to have A seat with thy Saviour divine, No longer delay, nor rest night nor day, Till a scriptural title is thine!
THE HAPPY CHOICE!
Jesus! thy name to me hath charms, Outvieing all beneath the sun; Thy secret love my bosom warms, And in my soul 'tis heav'n begun!
No peace like that thy presence brings, No joys like those thou dost impart; Anon, with healing in thy wings, Thou com'st to heal the broken heart!
Thy footsteps may I always see, Under thy shadow may I dwell!
I give my life, my all to thee, And triumph o'er the powers of Hell!
Thou dost my soul with rapture fill, No more for mammon I contend; I glory in the joys I feel, While thou dost comfort and defend!
O let thy name be always sweet As honey, from the rock, that flows; So shall I gladly turn my feet, Where'er my blessed Master goes!
ON THE DEATH OF JOHN MORLEY.
"Heard you that groan? 'Twas from a dying man!
A man just gone into Eternity!"
"Redeem thy time! Thy life is but a span!"
That language,-Hark! It speaks to you and me!
A man of health, and strength, and spirits gay, The solemn call seem'd distant to his view; But, lo, how soon the victim's snatch'd away By Death's rude hand, and bids the world adieu!
Fearless of danger, he, twelve days before, Went to the field to share the common lot, With the sharp scythe to cut the grass or flower, But, ah, the secret lesson he forgot!
"_All flesh_ is grass, or like the flowery field, So soon 'tis faded, wither'd, or cut down; To time's embrace its charms are forc'd to yield, The winds pass over it, and it is gone!"
When heated by the sun's meridian ray, And parch'd with thirst, to drink he felt inclin'd, Dropping his scythe, poor Morley took his way, In hopes some cool, refreshing stream to find!
To yonder river to receive his death, With sweat, like dewdrops, hanging on his brow, He hastes-nor thinks he must resign his breath, And to the lonely church-yard shortly go!
Thus bathed in sweat the river's bank he gains, And drinks, and washes in the crystal flood; When lo! an icy coldness chills his veins, Affects his senses, and inflames his blood!
He medical assistance quickly sought, Excessive pain depriv'd his eyes of sleep; Physicians soon their powerful medicines brought, But ah! the fatal dart had pierc'd too deep!
The fever rages, not a limb is free, It mocks the power of remedies applied; Friends weep, and wish for his recovery;- Alas! their warmest wishes are denied.
His fate seems hard, but yet Heav'n sees it fit, And Heaven's will is best, we must agree;- Sooner or later we must all submit To Death's loud call,-to nature's stern decree!
The surgeon blushes while his patient bleeds, All hope soon vanishes of life below; With hasty step the monster Death proceeds, Lifts his fell dart, and strikes the fatal blow!
His wife distracted doth her loss deplore, His children weep as though their hearts would break; They shrieking cry, "Our father is no more!
O where shall we our lonely refuge seek?
Where shall we find so true, so kind a friend?
Where shall we find a sharer in our grief?
Where shall we find a Father to attend,- To wipe our tears, or point us to relief?"
O haste! O haste! the house of prayer attend, And plead your cause, bow'd at your Saviour's feet; To Heaven daily let your prayers ascend, And there a Friend, and Father you shall meet!
Poor Morley's dead! the startled village cries!
His wife, a widow, has in tears to grieve!
While he, outstretched, now pale and silent lies, Nor tongue, nor eye, nor hand a motion give!
No more his whistle echo's through the grove, Nor clashing gates pursue his loaded steed; No more he through the fields doth rove, To play the flute, or blow the rustic reed!
No more the rolling flood's at his controul, Nor willing servant runs when he shall bid; But mournfully I hear the death bell toll, To hail him welcome to his lonely bed!
But Oh, the soul! That ever during spark, Kindled in him by the Almighty's breath, Still lives, though we her passage cannot mark!- She lives, though she hath pass'd the vale of death!
Where has she fled? What is her portion now, While I upon his death thus meditate?
'Tis mystery this we mortals must not know,- And cries, "Prepare ye, for a future state!"
Her portion's that for which she was prepar'd;- Though suddenly remov'd from earth below, No more can she reject her just reward, She shares eternal happiness, or woe!
To trace her flight might but insult her King, Since He for guilty sinners once did bleed!- The muse in silence drops her feeble wing, Refusing any further to proceed!
THE SERVANT'S ADDRESS TO HIS MASTER;
_On deriding him for becoming a Methodist!_
Master, I beg you'll pardon, while I speak, The liberty I now presume to take; And trust the brief apology you'll hear, Will please, if you will please to lend an ear.
"Wilt thou forsake the Church?" did you not say?
"And strive to get to Heaven some nearer way?
A better way perhaps by you believ'd:- But 'twill be well if you are not deceiv'd?"
Deceiv'd, or not, we are resolv'd to go; If Christ be with us, all is well we know!
He is our Leader, He marks out the way, Inviting all to come, and none to stay!
The Church, or doctrine, we've no cause to blame, 'Tis to ourselves that we ascribe the shame!
The way to heav'n was certainly made plain, When told to "run so that we might obtain."
Our prayers and praises were so faint and few, We thought one day in seven would surely do, To praise Him who is worthy of more praise, Than our best powers are qualified to raise!