Whose steps a saintly figure trod,
By Death's cold hand led home to GOD.

He landed in our view,

'Midst flaming hosts above; Whose ranks stood silent, while he drew

Nigh to the throne of love, And meekly took the lowest seat, Yet nearest his Redeemer's feet.

Thrilled with ecstatic awe,

Entranced our spirits fell, And saw-yet wist not what they saw,

And heard-no tongue can tell What sounds the ear of rapture caught, What glory filled the eye of thought.

Thus far above the pole,

On wings of mountain fire, Faith may pursue the enfranchised soul,

But soon her pinions tire; It is not given to mortal man Eternal mysteries to scan.

-Behold the bed of death;

This pale and lovely clay;
Heard ye the sob of parting breath?

Marked ye the eye's last ray?
No;-life so sweetly ceased to be,
It lapsed in immortality.

Could tears revive the dead,

Rivers should swell our eyes ! Could sighs recall the spirit fled,

We would not quench our sighs Till love relumed this altered mien, And all the embodied soul were seen.

Bury the dead ;-and weep

In stillness o'er the loss;
Bury the dead ;-in Christ they sleep

Who bore on earth His cross,
And from the grave their dust shall rise
In His own image to the skies.



STRIKE a louder, loftier lyre;

Bolder, sweeter strains employ; Wake, Remembrance! and inspire

Sorrow with the song of joy. Who was he, for whom our tears

Flowed, and will not cease to flow? Full of honours and of years,

In the dust his head lies low.

Yet resurgent from the dust,

Springs aloft his mighty name; For the memory of the just

Lives in everlasting fame.
He was one, whose open face

Did his inmost heart reveal;
One, who wore with meekest grace,

On his forehead, Heaven's broad seal. Kindness all his looks expressed,

Charity was every word;
Him the eye beheld and blessed,

And the ear rejoiced that heard.
Like a patriarchal sage,

Holy, humble, courteous, mild, He could blend the awe of age

With the sweetness of a child. As a cedar of the LORD,

On the height of Lebanon, Shade and shelter doth afford

From the tempest and the sun; While in green luxuriant prime,

Fragrant airs its boughs diffuse, From its locks it shakes sublime,

O'er the hills, the morning dews: Thus he flourished, tall and strong,

Glorious in perennial health; Thus he scattered, late and long, All his plenitude of wealth !

Wealth, which prodigals had deemed

Worth the soul's uncounted cost; Wealth, which misers had esteemed

Cheap, though heaven itself were lost.

This with free unsparing hand

To the poorest child of need, This he threw around the land,

Like the sower's precious seed.

In the world's great harvest-day,

Every grain on every ground, Stony, thorny, by the way,

Shall a hundredfold be found.

Yet, like noon's refulgent blaze,

Though he shone from east to west, Far withdrawn from public gaze,

Secret goodness pleased him best.

As the sun, retired from sight,

Through the purple evening gleams, Or, unrisen, clothes the night

In the morning's golden beams;

Thus beneath the horizon dim,

He would hide his radiant head, And on eyes that saw not him,

Light and consolation shed.

Oft his silent spirit went,

Like an angel from the throne, On benign commissions bent,

In the fear of God alone.

Then the widow's heart would sing,

As she turned her wheel for joy ; Then the bliss of hope would spring

On the outcast orphan boy.

To the blind, the deaf, the lame,

To the ignorant and vile, Stranger, captive, slave, he came With a welcome and a smile.

Help to all he did dispense,

Gold, instruction, raiment, food,
Like the gifts of Providence,

To the evil and the good.

Deeds of mercy, deeds unknown,

Shall eternity record,
Which he durst not call his own,

For he did them to the LORD.

As the earth puts forth her flowers,

Heavenward breathing from below;
As the clouds descend in showers,

When the southern breezes blow;

Thus his renovated mind,

Warm with pure celestial love,
Shed its influence on mankind,

While its hopes aspired above.

Full of faith, at length he died,

And, victorious in the race,
Won the crown for which he vied

Not of merit, but of grace.

No. III.


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that burns the aged Brahmin's bones,
Runs cold in blood, and issues living groans,
When the whole haram with the husband dies,
And demons dance around the sacrifice.

In savage realms, when tyrants yield their breath,
Herds, flocks, and slaves attend their lord in death;
Arms, chariots, carcases, a horrid heap,
Rust at his side, or share his mouldering sleep.

When heroes fall triumphant on the plain,
For millions conquered, and ten thousands slain;
For cities levelled, kingdoms drenched in blood,
Navies annihilated on the flood ;

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The pageantry of public grief requires
The splendid homage of heroic Tyres,
And genius moulds impassioned brass to breathe
The deathless spirit of the dust beneath,
Calls marble honour from its caverned bed,
And bids it live--the proxy of the dead.

Reynolds expires, a nobler chief than these;
No blood of widows stains his obsequies;
But widows' tears, in sad bereavement, fall,
And foundling voices on their father call :
No slaves, no hecatombs his relics crave,
To gorge the worm, and crowd his quiet grave;
But sweet repose his slumbering ashes find,
As if in Salem's sepulchre enshrined,
And watching angels waited for the day
When Christ should bid them roll the stone away.

Not in the fiery hurricane of strife,
'Midst slaughtered legions, he resigned his life;
But peaceful as the twilight's parting ray,
His spirit vanished from its house of clay,
And left on kindred souls such power imprest,
They seemed with him to enter into rest.
Hence no vain pomp, his glory to prolong,
No airy immortality of song ;
No sculptured imagery, of bronze or stone,
To make his lineaments for ever known,
Reynolds requires :—his labours, merits, name,
Demand a monument of surer fame;
Not to record and praise his virtues past,
But show them living, while the world shall last;
Not to bewail one Reynolds, snatched from earth,
But give, in every age, a Reynolds birth;
In every age a Reynolds; born to stand
A prince among the worthies of the land,
By Nature's title written in his face:
More than a prince-a sinner saved by grace,
Prompt at his meek and lowly Master's call
To prove himself the minister of all.

Bristol ! to thee the eye of Albion turns;
At thought of thee thy country's spirit burns;
For in thy walls, as on her dearest ground,
Are “ British minds and British manners” found :
And, 'midst the wealth which Avon's waters pour
From every clime on thy commercial shore,
Thou hast a native mine of worth untold ;
Thine heart is not encased in rigid gold,

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