Classic Poem

DAY dawns, noon comes, and night;
The sun withdraws from sight;
Then morn again; so weeks and months steal by.
To year is added year,
As mortals reckon here,
And swift as light-shafts do the moments fly.

And yet, so strange our thought,
We seem to heed it not,
Gliding along from early life to age,
Till at the fountain; when
The pitcher breaks, and then
Our actions cease, on life's all-changing stage.

Another voice is mute,
Richer than harp or lute,
When Eve, in leafy shades, is dank with dew:
No river half so grand,
Flowing o'er rock or sand,
With modulation ever sweet and new.

When first my lyre I found,
Heard I its solemn sound
Rising and swelling on my Cornish moors:
And I have listen'd long,
And paused amid my song,
As if it burst through Eden's golden doors.

No bard where monarchs shine,
Dower'd with the gift Divine,
Trill'd sweeter music than the gifted dead.
And now, 't is mute, 't is mute,
Shatter'd the precious lute;
The casket broken, and the jewel fled.

Long'd I, almost with pain,
To hear that voice again,
Which fill'd my spirit with a bliss unknown.
Now, never, never more,
Till on the angel-shore
All sighs are ended, and all tears are flown.

I cannot hope to hear
Music so rich and clear,
Whilst journeying on through scenes of sin and strife.
In higher regions now,
With glory on his brow,
He walks with seraphs, by the Well of Life.

He gave the Giver all,
Obey'd his Master's call,
For Jesus Christ his noblest gifts employ'd:
Labour'd with zeal sublime,
To hasten on the time,
When love shall reign, and sin shall be destroy'd.

Guided by Him above,
His pen he dipp'd in love,
For human weal, by the Good Spirit blest:
The pulpit and the page
Did his high thought engage,
Till oped the door, and he went home to rest.

Not with long nights of woe,
By fell disease, and slow:
But like a bark, when sea and sky are bright,
He left the mourner's strand
For Canaan's holy land,
To meet his Saviour on the shores of light.

Arm'd with bright sword and shield,
Death met him on the field;
And sank the Christian warrior, Sabbath-crown'd:
Leaving, for friends who sigh,
This gentle sweet reply,
Ere broke the silver cord, " Mercies abound! "

From morning's crystal height,
Streams down the Sabbath light,
Stirring the waters of his well of love:
O, day of rest for him!
With white-wing'd seraphim
He closes it, where Jesus reigns above.

We deeply mourn his loss,
True bearer of the Cross:
And, as the tears steal out, we sigh, " Farewell! "
O, He, the Good, the Wise,
Who took him to the skies,
For evermore performeth all things well!