University of Virginia Library

Elegy

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. W. CREIGHTON.

Loud howl'd the wind, dark hung the sable cloud
O'er Sol's bright face, like midnight's ebon shroud,
While he, far south, in Sagittarius reigns,
And drops his rays on Afric's sultry plains.
Chill crystal icicles hung on the trees;
Wild rung the hail, borne by the boreal breeze;
The river, buried, was not seen to flow,
Immured by crusting ice and smoth'ring snow.
When thus stern winter raged throughout the isle,
And ruthlessly 'gainst mortals warr'd the while,
Relentless fate did throw his death-fraught dart,
And struck bright virtue's champion to the heart.

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He's gone! his spirit wings her flight on high,
Swift, through the stellar orbs that gem the sky,
And prostrate falls before the throne above,
Prelusive to her endless song of love.
O happy change to her! no more to know
The strong assaults of earth's malignant foe;
And there to join the grand angelic choir,
Who touch, with hand sublime, the golden lyre!
Ah me! keen anguish fills my bursting heart,
With such a benefactor now to part;
To see him laid in earth's damp gelid urn,
Thence, till time's latest day, ne'er to return.
And there he lies, the friend of God and man,
Who squared his life by the Almighty's plan;
Subdued each vice, each virtue did improve;
His groundwork, sure, was universal love.
His sage instructions, and his mien so mild,
Time's longest, dullest hours, have oft beguiled;
To guide oft-erring youth his greatest care,
To show them virtue's path, and keep them there.
Grieved was Elisha for his master, torn
From earth, though heavenward in a chariot borne;
And grieved was I to see my guardian's head
Interr'd within the chamber of the dead.
What though no cloister'd shrine surround his tomb,
Sweet shall he rest until the day of doom!
Round which remembrance oft shall pensive sigh,
While tears conglobe her retrospective eye.
Here does he lie! wrapp'd in a heavenly sleep,
For whom the virtuous and the learned weep;
Warmer remember'd than the hero great
Who, in Westminster Abbey, lies in state.
And when the trump of doom shall loudly ring,
To judgment an assembled world to bring,
He'll rise to share the glorious interview,
Where, of the great on earth, will be but few.