IN MEMORY OF JOHN NEWTON WILSON, OB. FEB. 23, 1844.
ANOTHER stricken from the roll of life!
Another added to the lost on earth!
Another joined to the innumerous host
Of every nation, kindred, tribe and tongue,
Who circle the Eternal Throne, and hymn
The praise of God and of the Lamb!
No more shall he make with us his abode ;
Exposed to life's rude buffetings and storms,
Partaker with us of the toil and care,
The strife and turmoil of this mortal state!
No more for him shall wake the vernal Spring,
Vocal with melody of warbling birds
No more smile Summer, redolent of flowers,
Or teeming Autumn, rich with golden store
Of Earth's outpourings in the lap of man ;
No more bleak Winter's fierce and howling storm
For him shall darken all without, to make
Home's light within, by contrast, doubly bright!
For him-alas, for us!-on earth, no more
Shall be the converse sweet of loving friends,
Endeared by kindly intercourse-for them, no more
The warm outpourings of that heart, imbued
With kindness, meekness, gentleness and love!
Not now for him will Learning spread her page,
For him so eagerly who conned it o'er!
Or Science, with her rich and varied hoard,
Tempt the inquiring mind, which wearied not
Till now in the pursuit! Nor yet, for him,
That high and holy calling, which he sought:
To break the bread of life to hungry souls;
To clothe the naked with the robe of truth;
Reclaim the wandering-bind the broken heart,
And whisper peace and pardon to the lost;—
God's minister unto a dying world!
That we on earth a friend have lost! We weep
That we shall see his face no more! And yet
In this would we rejoice:-That he has passed
From his frail tenement of earthly dust,
Home to the bosom of his Father, GOD!
His now the Father's many-mansioned house-
His the bright crown of glory-his the song
Of that high multitude, no man can number,
Of the redeemed, who stand before the throne,
And rest not, day nor night, to tune their harps:
TO HIM that loved and washed them from their sins;
To HIM that made them kings and priests to God;
To HIM that sitteth on the throne-to HIM
Be honour, blessing, glory, might and power,
Forever and forevermore!
That he has gone where Death can never come,
For there no more is sickness! Not there shine
The sun by day, and the pale moon by night;
But God's own glory is his people's light!
There pain and anguish, sorrow, sin and wo
May never enter! Thirst and hunger there
Can come not-for the Lamb his flock will feed,
And to the heavenly fountains, pure and blest,
Of living waters lead-and God himself
Shall wipe away all tears from every eye!
SHORT, passing pilgrimage was thine, dear boy,
Through the lone wilderness of this rude world;
Brief space alike, for thee the founts of joy
Were ope'd at thee the darts of sorrow hurled;
Few years for thee, Spring's bubbling brooklets
Shone Summer's sun-the teeming Autumn's prime, Ere thy young spirit's pinions were unfurled
In glorious flight for that eternal clime,
Where come nor heat, nor cold, nor change, nor time!
Where the redeemed, with ever new delight
The praises of their God and Saviour hymn,
Himself their sun by day, their moon by night!
Such now thy task-our thanks for thee we give
Who thus, in dying, but begin'st to live!
THOU art gone!-to thy last long rest,
To that quiet and peaceful home,
In the high abode of the holy bless'd,
Where sorrow may never come!
Where sighing and tears are done—
Where labour and toil are o'er-
Where sickness and pain and ills are none,
And where Death itself is no more!
Thou art gone!-from a world of sin,
Of sorrow, of care and wo,
To a realm where sin may not enter in,
And where sorrow they never know!
From a clime where, by cold and heat,
Our spirits are ever tried,
To that perfect world where the just shall meet,
From earth's dross all purified!
|