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!