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But superstition here shall have no place,
And fancy none—realities demand
A genuine strain: and could that strain but flow,
As, Morgan, it should flow, not vainly then
Should it return: then recollection strong
Should be rekindled;—what thy brother was;
—The son, that could to age consoling give
The lov'd attentions;—th' husband that outstript
His partner's wishes;—the benignant fire,
His children's joy;—to thee another self,
Kindest of brothers;—and mid friends a friend,
Not of the vulgar and the narrow sort:
Such should he live—the patriot should live;
And, above all, the friend of human kind.
His principle should live; his love of man
Move in some breast, perhaps estrang'd before
To the large passion, bath'd, as it might seem,
Into his very spirit, 'till he rose
A soul baptiz'd, a new created man.

His was the pastor's lot:—and tho' he doff'd
The shepherd-trim, yet could he not shift off,
—Nature had cloath'd him there,—the pastor's heart.
For social was his soul; and what he gain'd
Of knowledge fair he freely would impart
To all in friendliest converse, but to youth
The most, as to the tenderest of the flock.
The pastor, become tutor, now instill'd
With science, principle, and love of truth,
Ardour for liberty, the proud contempt
Of power, and priest-craft, and the fondling wiles
Links of the chain, that rivets human kind.

And did he teach in vain? No—Morgan—no—
Love is a stirring principle—a seed,
That silently works upward into life,
Of flower and fruit most fragrant; and a soil,
The breast of youth, where heaven delights to shed
The richest influence, and to th' heart's root strikes.

Oh! ye his children, when in distant years
Ye bustle thro' a world, where slavery, pride,
Avarice, ambition, and the abject routs
Of worse than pagan deities are seen,
Abominations, worshipp'd at highest noon,
On altars deep distain'd with precious gore,
With human victims,—tho' the cries are drown'd
In the loud shouts of victory, and the bray
Of triumph, and the din of midnight riot,
And self admiring soothings; rites more curs'd,
More filthy, hell-born, than were ever paid
On Grecian shrines, or to that tyrant god
Moloch, who erst by Rabba's fruitful vale
Drank of the hell-cup mixt with parents tears;—
Oh! when abominations, such as these,
Crowd on your eyes, and ye may, chance, reflect
On cities pillag'd, and on villages
In flames, lands wide wasted, with the pride
Of arts demolish'd, and of temples raz'd;
Then say, and let self-rev'rence work within,
“Such gods were not the worship of my sire.”
But, when ye see within the peaceful vale
Industry bend, and independence link'd
Closely behind her, Science, and the train
Of smiling virtues, honour and truth, and love,
The love of human kind: Oh! then revolve,
Such was my father; then may move within
The true ambition, the full soul of zeal,
To emulate his worth; and on your breasts
Striking, while sweet remembrance stirs within,
Say, with an honest pride:—“Here sleeps my sire;
“Here unforgotten lies an honest man.”