Classic Poem

Dissolve in tears, ye bright seraphic fires,
If sorrow can have place in heav'nly choirs;
Men's eyes unable are enough to shed;
A juster wound the world hath seldom bred:
Behold a gracious plant, for fruit, for flow'r;
A noble saint for zeal, for truth, for pow'r;
A peerless gem for virtue, proof, and price;
On earth a friend to truth, a foe to vice:
And lo! alas! this piece of heav'n doth die;
The case might make the very stones to cry.
O death! why tyrannisest in thy might?
Why so severe, to strike so choice a wight?
Why let'st out of the ark a Noah's dove,
While many hearts were arks unto his love?
Hath death a pow'r to break affection's lock,
And steal the darling of the little flock?
Nay, sure; what's lov'd to-day can die to-morrow;
What's dead to love is still alive to sorrow.
This man of God still lives, and lodging hath
In grateful memories, in spite of death,
He lives not only now above the skies,
But lives on earth in tears of many eyes.
Zeal, mildness, grace, gave air unto his breath:
And hence his savour liveth after death.
His walk, his worship, were of divine stamp;
His doctrine, practice, all a burning lamp.
His life all light and heat, fed from above;
His lips all fervour, and his heart all love:
His time all holy-days; for of the seven
Each day was Sabbath, and each Sabbath Heav'n;
His home was secret places of the stairs;
His title known to be a man of pray'rs.
No grove, no river-side frequented he,
But there the place of pray'r was wont to be,
Bethel, where-e'er he went, was his abode;
For still he reared altars to his God.
His converse heav'nly, and his carriage mild;
His soul sublime, his conscience undefil'd.
His frame seraphic in devotion's mount;
His holy ardour seldom waxing blunt:
Floods of celestial aid did elevate
Th' ark of his soul to heav'nly Ararat,
Full gales, heart-rending throbs, heav'n-reaching cries,
Did waft his ardent pray'rs above the skies.
For church, for state, for all he pray'd with not;
No case, no place, no friend, no foe forgot.
He trode the milky-way, by faith and pray'rs,
Was cloth'd with gravity, without grey hairs.
Was master of his passions all within;
Glad without lightness, angry without sin.
His language corresponding with his faith;
No vain nor idle word defil'd his breath.
His lips unfeign'd, his actions undisguis'd;
Most modest when caress'd, meek when despis'd,
A map of innocent humility;
A peerless paragon of sympathy.
A mirror great of love to great and small;
A compound of compassion towards all.
By love he conquer'd some of high degree;
And kill'd the meanest with his courtesy.
His kindness with sincerity appear'd;
To rich, to poor, to ev'ry sort endear'd.
With care he mark'd all providental ways,
Ev'n the minutest, to his Maker's praise,
His active spirit oil'd with Herman dew
Did swiftly after endless bliss pursue:
He was a mighty hunter, and the chase,
The God of glory in the field of grace.
Alas! the race was very short indeed;
But lack in space, was well made up in speed.
His public spirit was of such a pitch
That few in zeal for God were found so rich.
So vast the treasure in this earthen cup;
Zeal for his Master's house did eat him up.
To whatsoever place he did repair,
His converse was a constant preaching there.
In house or field, this antipode of sloth
For gaining souls, spent soul and body both:
For, like his Lord, whose service was his food,
He went about for ever doing good.
Still at his Master's work, still at his motion:
A constant miracle of close devotion.
Mounting the pulpit from his secret bow'r,
He pray'd with divine pith, and preach'd with power.
Faithful to all men, in their several places,
He neither spar'd their faults, nor fear'd their faces.
This ministerial grace to him was given
To leave on many hearts a seal of heaven.
Yet still his humble mind shun'd airy fame;
Pursu'd the merit but refus'd the name:
His self-drain'd soul despis'd opinion's blaze;
He sought the virtue but disclaim'd the praise:
He all the glory to his God did yield,
And crown'd fair grace the empress of the field.
Ah! here is but the name of that fair saint;
We have his image, but himself we want.
He hath the crown indeed, but we the cross:
He finds the gain; but we, alas! the loss.
Death broke the cage to let the sparrow fly,
Which now hath found a house, a nest on high,
Even God's own altars to eternity.
Our Sodom now may fear the storm anon,
When Lot is to his wished Zoar gone.
God doth sometimes first crop the sweetest flow'r,
And leaves the weeds till tempests them devour.
So ripe is vice, so green is virtue's bud,
The world doth wax in ill, but wain in good,
And Noah's to his ark: we fear a flood.
This happy soul is now above the storm,
Fix'd on his rock, with saints of highest form;
For while his vessel past the troubled ocean,
He sail'd from strength to strength with swiftest motion,
Till on Immanuel's land he came a-shore,
The place to which he sent his heart before.
Such was his holy life, as now resolv'd,
Which by a happy life was thus dissolv'd.
As lumps of sugar lose themselves and twine
Their supple essence in the spir't of wine:
So he in death did sweetly melt away,
As doth the dawn into the rising day:
Aurora fair must vail her rosy face
When brighter Phœbus occupies her place:
So he; when glory rose in room of grace.
His death not differed from this life of his,
Nor the conclusion from the premises.
His death-bed prov'd a little paradise,
And usher'd in with hallelujahs thrice.
He, (in his swimming over Jordan river,)
Began to sing as now he shall for ever;
For there he sang before he went a-shore,
A triple victory for evermore:
Dull earth could scarce endure his holy noise,
While he did antidate his future joys.
Some saw his happy excit, unto whom
He told of Cherubs sent to guard him home:
And thus his better part was wafted o'er
With prelibations of his endless glore.
Could we now hear this blessed harper play
His hallelujahs; sweetly might he say,
Rue not my death, rejoice at my repose,
The bud was op'ned to let forth the rose,
It was no death to me, but to my wo,
The chain was loos'd to let the captive go.
From cross to crown, from thrall to throne I went,
And now I reign; I sing with full content.
Lo! here I rest; and here I love to be,
Where I enjoy more than my faith could see.
I preach'd the glory which I now behold:
But lo! the thousandth part was never told.
I got a taste below, but now above,
I forage in the verdant fields of love.
On earth, my faith stole down a distant kiss;
But now my love cleaves to the cheek of bliss.
Lament not my decease, as your mishap,
When I so gladly rest in glory's lap,
Weep not that death did me from death deliver,
Nor grieve as for a loss; I'm won for ever.
I fought, I wrestled there, from whence I came;
I joy, I triumph here, where now I am.
On earth I long'd to see my Jesus dear;
Behold! I sought him there, and find him here.
In galleries of joy, in white I walk,
'Mong worthy wights, of whom I once did talk,
I see this glorious King in whom I boast,
Upon the head of this triumphant host.
With this seraphic quire I join on high,
To warble notes of praise eternally;
Glory to God that ever here I came,
And glory, glory, glory to the Lamb:
My light, my life, my strength, my joy, my all,
Is now within mine arms, and ever shall.
My glorious Lord is mine, and I am his;
I'm like him, for I see him as he is:
No darkness vails him now, no dismal night,
No cloud, no vapour intercepts his light.
I see, I see for ever face to face
The brightest beauty in the brightest place.
Thus might he say; but, ah! we seem too bold;
Can heav'n's unutterable joys be told!
There, there he dwells; earth was so low a place,
For him to view his Saviour's comely face,
That with Zaccheus from the lower story,
He grasp'd the branch, and climb'd the tree of glory,
O may we trace his steps, with one accord,
And imitate him, as he did his Lord!
For still his hope, his joy, his aim was this,
To live, to love, to be where now he is.