Thy spirit from its toil at last should rest;
So wills thy God, and what He wills is best!
Thou hast encounter'd dark disease's train, Thou hast conversed with poverty and pain, Thou hast beheld the dreariest forms of woe That through this mournful vale unfriended go; And pale with sympathy hast paused to hear The saddest plaints e'er told to human ear. Go, then, the task fulfill'd, the trial o'er, Where sickness, want, and pain are known no more!
How awful did thy lonely track appear,
Enlightening misery's benighted sphere!
As when an angel all serene goes forth
To still the raging tempest of the north,
Th' embattled clouds that hid the struggling day
Slow from his face retire in dark array;
On the black waves, like promontories hung,
A light, as of the orient morn, is flung,
Till blue and level heaves the silent brine,
And the new lighted rocks at distance shine :
E'en so didst thou go forth with cheering cye-
Before thy looks the shades of misery fly;
So didst thou hush the tempest, stilling wide
Of human woe the loud lamenting tide.
Nor shall the spirit of those deeds expire,
As fades the feeble spark of vital fire,
But beam abroad, and cheer with lustre mild
Humanity's remotest prospects wild,
Till this frail orb shall from its sphere be hurl'd,
Till final ruin hush the murmuring world,
And all its sorrows, at the awful blast
Of th' archangel's trump, be but as shadows past!
Relentless Time, that steals with silent tread,
Shall tear away the trophies of the dead;
Fame, on the pyramid's aspiring top,
With sighs shall her recording trumpet drop;
The feeble characters of Glory's hand
Shall perish, like the tracks upon the sand;
But not with these expire the sacred flame
Of virtue, or the good man's awful name.
Howard! it matters not that far away
From Albion's peaceful shore thy bones decay.
Him it might please, by whose sustaining hand
Thy steps were led through many a distant land,
Thy long and last abode should there be found,
Where many a savage nation prowls around;
That Virtue from the hallow'd spot might rise,
And, pointing to the finish'd sacrifice,
Teach to the roving Tartar's savage clan
Lessons of love, and higher aims of man.
The hoary chieftain, who thy tale shall hear,
Pale on thy grave shall drop his faltering spear;
The cold, unpitying Cossack thirst no more
To bathe his burning falchion deep in gore,
Relentless to the cry of carnage speed,
Or urge o'er gasping heaps his panting steed!
Nor vain the thought that fairer hence may rise New views of life and wider charities.
Far from the bleak Riphean mountains hoar, From the cold Don, or Wolga's wandering shore, From many a shady forest's lengthening tract, From many a dark descending cataract,
Succeeding tribes shall come, and, o'er the place Where sleeps the general friend of human race, Instruct their children what a debt they owe, Speak of the man who trod the paths of woe; Then bid them to their native woods depart, With new-born virtue aching at their heart.
When o'er the sounding Euxine's stormy tides In hostile pomp the Turk's proud navy rides,
Bent on the frontiers of th' imperial Czar,
To pour the tempest of vindictive war;
If onward to those shores they haply steer
Where, Howard, thy cold dust reposes near,
Whilst o'er the wave the silken pennants stream,
And seen far off the golden crescents gleam,
Amid the pomp of war the swelling breast
Shall feel a still unwonted awe impress'd,
And the relenting Pagan turn aside
To think-on yonder shore the Christian died!
But thou, O Briton, doom'd perhaps to roam
An exile many a year, and far from home,
If ever fortune thy lone footsteps leads
To the wild Nieper's banks and whispering reeds,
O'er Howard's grave thou shalt impassion'd bend,
As if to hold sad converse with a friend.
Whate'er thy fate upon this various scene,
Where'er thy weary pilgrimage has been,
There shalt thou pause; and, shutting from thy
heart
Some vain regrets that oft unbidden start,
Think upon him, to every lot resign'd,
Who wept, who toil'd, who perish'd for mankind.
For me who musing, Howard, on thy fate,
These pensive strains at evening meditate,
I thank thee for the lessons thou hast taught
To mend my heart, or animate my thought.
I thank thee, Howard, for that awful view
Of life which thou hast drawn, most sad, most true.
Thou art no more! and the frail fading bloom
Of this poor offering dies upon thy tomb:
Beyond the transient sound of earthly praise
Thy virtues live, perhaps, in seraphs' lays!
I, borne in thought to the wild Nieper's wave,
Sigh to the reeds that whisper o'er thy grave.
THE MOTHER'S DIRGE.
FROM bubbling streams, or springs that rise
In mountain grot or willowy vale,
Bring water, while I close these eyes,
And kiss these lips so cold and pale.
From tufted grove and shadowy glen,
Untrodden by the feet of men,
From sedgy banks and fragrant fields
Bring every flower that nature yields;
And scatter every breathing sweet
On loved Maria's winding-sheet.
Bless'd spirit, newly freed from pain,
While o'er thy faded cheek I bend,
Beloved and watch'd and wept in vain!
A moment more thy flight suspend.
Behold, while hovering on thy wing,
With water from the silver spring
I wash thy limbs, I spread thy bier;
And lay thee down with many a tear,
Clad in thy shroud of spotless white,
To slumber through thy weary night.
Thy tender smile, thy soothing voice,
Thy playful innocence no more
Thy fond, fond mother shall rejoice:
Thy little dreams of joy are o'cr.
Of all the graces of thy mind,
No token wilt thou leave behind:
No trace of thee will soon remain,
But, in this breast a mother's pain,
A mossy grave, an humble stone,
To tell thy years and name unknown.
W. CAREY.
FRIEND AFTER FRIEND DEPARTS.
FRIEND after friend departs:
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts,
That finds not here an end.
Were this frail world our final rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.
Beyond the flight of time,
Beyond the reign of death,
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath;
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expire.
There is a world above
Where parting is unknown;
A long eternity of love,
Form'd for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here,
Translated to that glorious sphere.
Thus, star by star declines,
Till all are pass'd away;
As morning high and higher shines,
To pure and perfect day:
Nor sink the stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.
THE USES OF AFFLICTION.
ONE end of God's sending afflictions upon men, is, to teach them humility and inspire a just sense of their own nothingness.
Every view we can take of the condition of man
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