Then come, my Muse; O, condescend to aid
My feeble efforts, while I touch this theme;
Ev'n thou who hoverest now o'er COWPER'S, shade—
Thou Source of Truth! and, with enlightening beam,
Remove the film that does becloud the eye
Of my dark understanding while I sing;
O, guide my trembling fingers, for I'll try
To tune my harp, and touch its every string.
Say now, what was that sound which caught my ear,
While I sat mute upon my father's bed
A sound so sweet it did my spirit cheer,
And made me muse, by contemplation led.
It was the triumph of that holy man—
His deathbed song, in view of yonder heaven
And as he spoke—till then his face was wan—
A brightened countenance was to him given.
"I have a glorious prospect now in sight!"
He said, then raised his voice—"'Tis through the blood
Of Jesus Christ; it fills me with delight,
And makes me long to cross dark Jordan's flood!"
But then, as if his words might be construed
To be impatient, he serenely said,
"Let not my language now be wrongly viewed;
I wait God's will—on Him my soul is stayed."
He still continued, "Though my suffering's great,
My strength has been quite equal to my day;
God's love to me indeed is very great,
Nor will I murmur though He still delay.
"I reckon all the sufferings of this time
As nothing, when compared with heavenly things!"
He ceased, and left me this to pen in rhyme,
And ponder o'er, when he in Glory sings.
I stood; my eyes were fixed upon that face
Which oft had worn a smile for me, his son;
In retrospect, I then began to trace
The many acts of kindness he had done.
Well I remember—though he was but poor—
How ardently he wished to have me taught
At least to read and write, if nothing more;
My interest to advance was what he sought.