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Pain, want, misfortune, thither shall repair;
Folly and vice reclaim'd shall worship there
The God of him-in whose transcendent mind
Stood such a temple, free to all mankind:
Thy God, thrice-honour'd city! bids thee raise
That fallen temple, to the end of days:
Obey his voice; fulfil thine high intent;
-Yea, be thyself the Good Man's Monument!

1818.

TO THE MEMORY OF

ROWLAND HODGSON, ESQ.,

OF SHEFFIELD;

Who departed this life January 27, 1837, aged 63 years. Through a long period of severe bodily affliction, aggravated in the sequel by loss of sight, he' signally exemplified the Christian graces of faith, hope, and charity, with humble resignation to the will of God. He had been from his youth one of the most active, liberal, and unwearied supporters of benevolent and evangelical institutions throughout this neighbourhood and elsewhere, in foreign lands as well as at home. The writer of these lines had the happiness to be his travelling companion on annual visits and temporary sojourns, which they made together in many parts of the kingdom, from the autumn of 1817 to the same season of 1836.

PART I.

Go where thy heart had gone before,

And thy heart's treasure lay;

Go, and with open'd eye explore

Heaven's uncreated day:

Light in the LORD, light's fountain, see,

And light in Him for ever be.

But darkness thou has left behind;

No sign, no sight, nor sound,
At home, abroad, of thee I find,
Where thou wert ever found;

Then gaze I on thy vacant place,

Till my soul's eye meets thy soul's face :

As, many a time, quite through the veil
Of flesh 'twas wont to shine,

When thy meek aspect, saintly pale,
In kindness turn'd to mine,
And the quench'd eye its film forgot,
Look'd full on me,—yet saw me not!
Then, through the body's dim eclipse,
What humble accents broke,
While, breathing prayer or praise, thy lips
Of light within thee spoke;
Midst Egypt's darkness to be felt,
Thy mind in its own Goshen dwelt.

Nor less in days of earlier health,
When life to thee was dear,
Borne on the flowing tide of wealth,

To me this truth was clear,

That hope in Christ was thy best health,
Riches that make not wings thy wealth.

When frequent sickness bow'd thy head,
And every labouring breath,
As with a heavier impulse, sped

Thy downward course to death,

Faith falter'd not that hope to show,

Though words, like life's last drops, fell slow.

How often when I turn'd away,

As having seen the last

Of thee on earth, my heart would say, -"When my few days are past,

Such strength be mine, though nature shrink,
The cup my Father gives, to drink!"

I saw thee slumbering in thy shroud,
As yonder moon I view,

Now glimmering through a snow-white cloud,
Midst heaven's eternal blue;

-I saw thee lower'd into the tomb,

Like that cloud deepening into gloom.

All darkness thou hast left behind;
-It was not thee they wound
In dreary grave-clothes, and consign'd
To perish in the ground;

"Twas but thy mantle, dropt in sight,
When thou wert vanishing in light.

That mantle, in earth's wardrobe lain,
A frail but precious trust,
Thou wilt reclaim and wear again,

When, freed from worms and dust,
The bodies of the saints shall be
Their robes of immortality.

PART II.

These fragments of departed years,
I gather up and store,

Since thou,-in mercy to our tears
And prayers,-art heal'd no more.
In that last war was no discharge;
-Yet walks thy ransom'd soul at large.

For what, my friend, was death to thee?
A king? a conqueror ?—No;
Death, swallow'd up in victory,
Himself a captive foe,

Was sent in chains to thy release,

By Him who on the cross made peace.

When year by year, on pilgrimage,
We journey'd side by side,

And pitch'd and struck, from stage to stage,

Our tents, had we one guide?

One aim ?-are all our meetings past?

Must our last parting be our last?

Nay, God forbid !—if hand and heart,
On earth we loved to roam,
-Where once to meet is ne'er to part,
In heaven's eternal home,

Our Father's house, not made with hands,
May we renew our friendship's bands!

Thus, as I knew thee well and long,
Thy private worth be told:

What thou wert more, affection's song
Presumes not to unfold:

Thy works of faith and zeal of love,
Are they not register'd above?

Are they not register'd below?.
-If few their praise record,
Yet, in the judgment, all shall know,
Thou didst them to thy LoRD;
For 'twas thy soul's delight to cheer
The least of all his brethren here.

Though less than even the least of these,
Thou didst thyself esteem,

Thou wert a flower-awakening breeze,
A meadow-watering stream:

The breeze unseen its odours shed,
The stream unheard its bounty spread.

What art thou now?-Methinks for thee
Heaven brightens round its king;
New beams of the Divinity,

New-landing spirits bring,

As God on each his image seals,
And ray by ray himself reveals.

While ray by ray those thronging lines

To one great centre tend,

Fulness of grace and glory shines

In CHRIST, their source and end, To show, where all perfections meet, The orb of Deity complete.

PART III.

So rest in peace, thou blessed soul!
Where sin and sorrow end;
So may I follow to the goal,

-Not thee, not thee, my friend!

But Him, whom thou, through joy and wo,
Thyself didst follow on to know.

Faint yet pursuing, I am strong,

Whene'er his steps I trace;

Else, slow of heart, and prone to wrong,
I yet may lose the race,

If on thy course I fix mine eye,

And Him in thee not glorify.

The wild, the mountain-top, the sea,

The throng'd highway he trode,

The path to quiet Bethany,

And Calvary's dolorous road:
Where He then leads me must be right;
-I walk by faith, and not by sight.

"OCCUPY TILL I COME."

ON THE DEATH OF

THE LATE JOSEPH BUTTERWORTH, ESQ.

AN EXEMPLARY CHRISTIAN, PATRIOT, AND PHILANTHROPIST.

"He was a burning and a shining light:"
-And is he now eclipsed in hopeless night?
No; faith beholds him near the sapphire throne;
Shining more bright than e'er on earth he shone;
While, where created splendour all looks dim,
Heaven's host are glorifying God in him.

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