Classic Poem

Attempt, O muse, the pious task; and shed
Melodious sorrows on the reverend dead.
No vulgar loss can make thee weakly groan,
To urge another's tears, or feign thy own:
But when a man of God in Sion dies,
No equal judge will blame thy mournful cries;
A cause so great, great sorrow justifies:
Religion will indulge such sighs as these,
That justly wail a holy man's decease.
Jesus himself, the practice to commend,
Wept o'er the grave of his departed friend.
May every pious soul in concert join,
And mix their sighs, and mix their tears with thine.

Descend into the reverend TAYLOR's tomb,
Survey the limits of that dusky room,
Where he resides in mansions of the dead,
Where he in silent shades reclines his head:
Visit a while those realms of gloomy night,
And thence emerge again to welcome light:
Life from his death thy genius shall derive;
A prophet's bones, when touch'd, have made the dead revive.

Vain state of man! press'd with succeeding woes,
As wave on wave i'th' rolling ocean flows,
Our calms and storms rule with unequal sway;
A long dark night veils a short smiling day:
Our joys soon die, our sorrows long survive,
And like Job's fatal messengers arrive:
Before one has his dismal news declar'd
A second with like tidings comes prepar'd;
And ere this has his tragic story told,
New scenes of trouble make the former old.

How chang'd our Sion's countenance appears
In the short space of few revolving years!
How many radiant stars extinct and gone,
That in our sphere of late so brightly shone!
Indulgent heaven's embassadors of grace
From an ungrateful world retire apace:
The louder and the softer voices cease
The sons of thunder, and the sons of peace:
The charming Bates , and the awakening M EDE ,
Go down to the apartments of the dead;
No more are seen on earth, are heard no more,
While we our guilt less than our loss deplore.
Many besides the silent tombs immure,
Whose names are fragrant all, and not obscure,
Who fill'd the breach our crimes so often made,
So oft o'ercame th'Almighty when they pray'd;
Stop'd the rais'd thunder he prepar'd to throw,
And warded off the fierce impending blow.

Yet might we less regret their flight to heaven,
Less accent might to our complaints be given,
If none were seen to quit the church below,
But heads adorn'd with venerable snow;
Whose long hard labours for cessation call,
Who like ripe fruit into earth's bosom fall,
As shocks of corn into the barn are stor'd:
Their age might make their exit less deplor'd.
But when they fall, or in their verdant prime,
Or just matur'd, nor yet decay'd by time;
To see our fairest flowers not fully blown,
Or noblest plants to their just stature grown,
When we hop'd long t'enjoy their scent and shade,
To see them and our hopes decline and fade;
To see them drop, and moulder into dust,
Raises a grief as great as it is just.

How useful, how improv'd, and how desir'd
Was TAYLOR, when his righteous soul expir'd!
We saw him enter'd on life's middle stage,
Past greener youth, nor wither'd yet with age:
Bright images, his notions still array'd,
And manly judgment youthful heat allay'd.
Study and pray'r increas'd his sacred store,
Much he produc'd, and still he promis'd more.
Such was he — Ah that such he is not still!
How many years to come we thought he had to fill!
O cruel death! too eager in thy chase,
To stop him short i'th'middle of his race:
How is our flattering expectation croft!
How fair a portion of his time is loft!
Quite lost to us those bright expected years!
Hence flow these sighs, hence flow these streams of tears.

Who now shall trace his steps with equal pace,
Who shall with equal lustre fill his place:
So well the gospel-trumpet he could blow,
Angels were pleas'd above, and men were charm'd below.
His pious labours with success were crown'd,
Returning sinners oft obey'd the sound,
And made the joy from earth to heaven rebound.
The sacred oracles he could dispense
With moving language, and convincing sense.
His criticks true, and his remarks were fine;
Bright figures made his just descriptions shine.
Abstracted truths in proper garments drest,
Their beauties to each wondering eye confest.
Attentive minds in easy terms were taught
The notions he attain'd by lab'ring thought.
An awful majesty his periods led,
And soft persuasion follow'd what he said.
Blaspheming wits designing to deride,
Laid all their weak artillery aside;
Forgot their impious jests, and serious grown,
Trembled to hear the sacred trumpet blown;
Their souls so pierc'd by every dreadful blast,
That every moment seem'd to be their last,
While he unveil'd a sinner's dying bed,
And open'd flaming heaven o'er his head.
He made 'em flaming heaven o'er his head.
The pains of death, and greater pains of hell.
His voice was thunder, and his eyes were flame;
His words like flashing darts of lightning came,
Cleft hearts of stone, and melted breasts of steel;
Then made 'em all those tender passions feel
With which religion contrite souls inspires,
Suppressing vile, and kindling pure desires:
So led the sinner to the cleansing flood,
To bathe his conscience in redeeming blood;
The doubting penitent to hope inclin'd,
Still'd the vibrations of his trembling mind;
Appeas'd the waves that once did fiercely roll,
And spread a calm o'er his admiring soul.
O heav'nly science! truly sacred art,
To wound a hard, and heal a broken heart!

But we no more that powerful voice shall hear,
That taught men how to hope, and how to fear.
Tho Goldsmith's curious art strives to retrieve
His form, and seems again to make him live;
Who can, to paint his voice, the secret find?
What mold express the features of his mind?
O that such talents should on earth be shown,
And then into the dust so soon be thrown!
So beauteous flow'rs, tender as they are fair,
Feel rude impressions from the blasting air:
So lofty pines and cedars often prove
The thundering fury of black storms above;
The sury of the ax beneath 'em feel,
While shrubs avoid the winds, and 'scape the steel.

Lament, O London, who wast lately blest
With such a prophet's voice; and tremble for the rest.
Churches have cause to mourn, and cities weep,
When angels die, and watchmen fall asleep.
Attend long-suffering heaven's repeated calls,
Attend the joyful sound that echoes round thy walls:
Rouze from thy stupid ease, and thoughtless sleep,
Weep o'er thy sins, o'er thy dead prophets weep:
Nor let surviving preachers spend in vain
Their strength, and of remorseless hearts complain;
Lest guilty of their blood, as of your own,
You make 'em die, as now you make 'em groan.
Their souls in secret mourn your harden'd pride,
While some their message slight, and some deride.
When shall true zeal your frozen bosoms warm;
Teach you to weep, and weeping to reform?
Repent your crimes, to God and man ingrate,
Lest hastning vengeance make slow tears too late.

O God of grace, suspend the threatning doom,
Nor still go on to call thy envoys home:
O not so oft repeat the dreadful stroke,
To which our frequent sins thy righteous arm provoke.
That arm surpriz'd blest TAYLOR's soul away,
Nor gave us time for such a life to pray:
No sons of art can stay his fleeting breath,
Nor gain an hour to parle with hasty death:
The virtue of their med'cines can't be try'd;
No time's allow'd to have 'em once apply'd.

Happy indeed for him! whose towering mind
So soon unfetter'd was, so soon refin'd.
His God who oft had heard him meekly groan
Under the racking pains of gout and stone,
Mov'd with compassion, kindly did ordain
An easy death should close a life of pain.
His other half so lately gone before,
Made earth the less, and heav'n desir'd the more.

His soul was from his body disengag'd,
As his prophetic wish long since presag'd;
" O may my house, said he, in order be,
" My soul drest ready for eternity!
" Then let her quit her tottering frame of " clay,
" And in a moment speed her flight away:
" O may I soon resign my willing breath,
" Without a formal siege of lingering death!
" Not worn with age, or spent with tedious " groans,
" As long, long dropping wears away the " stones;
" But let me start from earth, and mount " above,
" Where endless pleasure reigns with endless " love:
" One sigh's enough, or one aspiring groan,
" To raise me from my pulpit to my throne.

Heav'n heard his sighs, nor disapprov'd his prayer:
Descending angels to his bed repair,
With charming whispers lure his soul away,
And to the skies with speedy wings convey.
This evening in our streets we see him tread;
A few soft hours repose him on his bed;
Th'ensuing morn, so fast his soul refines,
He on celestial Salem's golden pavement shines.

To him th' uncommon privilege was given
To fall asleep on earth, and wake in heaven:
No tedious agonies need to untie
A soul that's ready to ascend on high,
And mourns her exile from her native sky.

Sure some bright vision charm'd him in the night,
Ravish'd his soul away with fierce delight:
She, eager to pursue the glorious theme,
Springs out, and drops her body in the dream;
On rapid wings of joy and love ascends,
Without a formal taking leave of friends:
At glory's brink, loth to return again,
Throws off her clothes, and tries th'aethereal main;
Plunges into that ocean of delight,
Where hope enjoyment turns, and faith refines to sight;
Soon reaches heav'nly Salem's shining towers,
Soon visits heav'nly Eden's smiling bowers,
Crown'd with delicious fruits, and odorous flowers;
Drinks at those streams which make the angels live,
And with eternal life, eternal pleasure give.
There saints more joys than here we sorrows know,
Their songs more constant than our sighs below.

There he receives his Saviour's loud applause,
For lab'ring to assert his righteous cause
Against those impious fools, whose blasphemies
Make the earth groan, and dare the patient skies;
While the bright host of heav'n with loud acclaim
Are glad to hear, and glad to spread his fame.

There, happy soul, with glad expectance wait
The glory of the resurrection-state:
When the shrill trumpet shall command aloud
Earth to restore a vast immortal croud:
When the archangel shall unbar the graves
Unlock the jaws of the devouring waves.
This wither'd flower shall then be freshly blown,
Shall rise in strength, tho now in weakness sown.
Thy body then shall in a form appear
More bright than that which angels us'd to wear,
When they made visits to a prophet's tent,
Or were to loose some holy prisoner sent.
Thy dust shall be immortal as thy mind,
The texture elegant, the mould refin'd:
A heav'nly air thy countenance adorn,
Bright as the noon-tide sun, sweet as the rising morn.
So JESUS on the shining mount appear'd,
Where wondring Peter would three tents have rear'd,
Charm'd with the splendor of his Saviour's face,
And two bright friends, that spoke with such a grace,
So dazling glorious, and so heavenly fair,
Such were his looks, and such his garments were.
No lesser pain, no torturing gout or stone
A softer sigh shall raise, or deeper groan;
No grating news shall e'er displease thy ear,
Or give thee cause to drop one single tear;
No sad idea to thy mind be brought,
To check one sally, or untune a thought.
Thou nor thyself, nor others shalt deplore,
For time and trouble then shall be no more:
But shalt sublimest joys for ever prove,
And in a sphere of constant glory move,
In one eternal round of purest life and love.

Muse, rein thy fancy's too impetuous flight,
Lest thou grow blind with so excessive light:
Too high a stretch may burn thy daring wings,
Too bold a stroke may break thy tuneful strings.
Canst thou the walks of paradise explore?
And furnish proper colours from thy store,
To paint the glories of the heavenly state?
Alas! thy talent is too small, the theme too great.
No turns of thought have we, no terms below,
To shew what joys they taste above, what truths they know:
One single moment there presents to view
What here an age of study cannot shew.
He that would sing of heav'n with heav'nly grace,
Must die, to learn the language of the place;
To learn the airs with which a seraph sings
Unutterable words, unutterable things.
To reach their songs 'tis worth the while to die,
Nor can one stoop too low, to take a flight so high.