An aged saint lies here in peace,
For here the storms of life all cease;
His lot, was not through life to glide,
His faith and patience long were tried :—
Wave after wave secure he passed,
And rose in triumph o'er the last.
His hour was come; no power on earth could save "The good old man," that rests within this grave : Nor did he wish to live :-prepared to die,
His soul was gathered to the saints on high;
So falls to earth at last the ripened grain,
To perish not; but rise, and live again.
His peaceful old age, was an evening without a cloud.
Her course was long-in peace she saw it end:
Looking beyond the vale with lively faith,
She saw the glory of the promised land,
And feared no evil, in the shades of death.
Oft His great goodness was my song,
Whose power did thus my days prolong
So far beyond that narrow span,
His will assigns to sinful man:
And here I would His love record,
That men may learn to fear the Lord.
This is an aged Pilgrim's rest,
Who with his Saviour now is blest,
Christ's service did his time employ,
Till called to enter his Redeemer's joy.
Would you die in a good old age,
Read, mark, and learn the sacred page;
Ah! that will guide you into peace :
And when, at last your life must cease,
Then will it calm each rising fear;
"Be not afraid, thy Saviour's near."
What! though I lived beyond the age
The longest life on earth is but a span;
O God, impress on ev'ry heart this truth,
That age is but the eve of youth.
See! here rests beneath the sod,
An aged, faithful man of God ;
Who, from his earliest youth,
Found comfort in the way of truth.
Should'st thou live throughout the span That makes the narrow life of man,
And live to life's last stage;
Study to do God's holy will,
And all the duties to fulfil,
Of manhood, and of age.
Here rests in peace by death laid low,
A head almost as white as snow ;-
Who can forget that aged face,
Which beamed with hope, and every grace;
Or e'er forget that smile of love,
Which proved him born for heaven above?
Here, holy man! thy labours cease-
Here have we laid thee-rest in peace-
The love which shone throughout thy course,
In vain shall lines like these rehearse;
This stone can only here record,
'Twas thy delight-to serve thy Lord.*
A spirit of unwearied zeal,
Patience, which nothing could subdue,
A heart the woes of man to feel
In every varied form, and hue.
An open hand-an eye-and ear,
For all in sorrow doomed to pine,
A voice the sinners hope to cheer,
These holy ! these were thine.
*The above was written by the Author, after musing on the death of his revered friend, the Rev. I. Kempthorne, B. D., Rector of St. Michael's, Gloucester, and is here inscribed as a small tribute of respect to the memory of a patient-laborious-self-denying-holy "man of God."
Swift as the gliding stream he passed away—
Who can forget the sorrows of that day?
And when we bore his body to the tomb,
What mournful crowds, bewailed his early doom,
Bewailed that gifted tongue, in silence mute,
Whose tones were sweeter, than the sweetest lute.
How many as they looked upon his bier,
Smote on their breast, and felt the gushing tear;
Well might they weep-of such a friend bereaved,
And speak of favours from his hand received.
His earthly course was like the bounteous sun,
And when he sunk in death-his work all done,
Calmly he viewed his last approaching hour,
His hope-his Saviour's love-his Saviour's power.
The Pastor's voice we loved to hear,
(Alas! too often heard in vain)
His hallowed words of praise and prayer,
Will never reach our ears again.
Oh! let us dwell with solemn thought,
On the instructions, which he gave,
Lessons which to the heart are brought,
As here we sorrow o'er his grave.
What, though he died in all his prime,
In full activity of zeal and power ;—
A Christian cannot die before the time,
The Lord's appointment is the servant's hour.
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