On the Death of W. H., Aged Fourteen

FOURTEEN/

Where is the fair Elysian flower,
The blooming youth that charm'd our eyes?
Cut down, and wither'd in an hour!
But now transplanted to the skies.
He triumphs o'er the mouldering tomb.
He blossoms in eternal bloom.

Nor did he perish immature.
Who starting won the short-lived race:
Unspotted from the world and pure.
And saved, and sanctified by grace,
The child fulfils his hundred years.
And ripe before his God appears.

Witness his one extreme desire.
To live, if spared, for God alone;
But rather with the tuneful choir,
To join the souls around the throne:
He grasps on earth the prize above,
And all his soul is prayer and love.

When reason fled the rack of pain,
Love still defied the torturer's power,.
Love, deathless love, doth still remain,
And consecrates his dying hour.
And wafts him to his native place,
And crowns his brow with golden rays.

Ascending to that world of light.
He quits our dreary vale of death.
But drops his mantle in his flight,
His blessing on his friends beneath;
Thrice happy, if his virtue's heirs,
If given to his dying prayers!

Happy whoe'er his wants suppHed,
Or served an heir of glory here;
Happy the souls to thine allied.
That saw their shining pattern near;
Happy the mates thou leav'st below.
If wise, with thee, their God to know.

But chiefly bless'd the womb that bare,
The paps that nursed a child like thee,
A child of providence and prayer,
Ordain'd his Father's face to see.
To' enjoy His love, to chant His praise
In rapturous, everlasting lays.

Tis done, the soul is enter'd there,
Where kindred saints and angels join:
We cast away our mournful care,
We bow and bless the will Divine:
Let God resume whom God had given,
And take us after him to heaven.