 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
273
EPITAPH—ACROSTIC.
When virtuous souls throw off their robes of clay,
Invited home to realms of endless day,
Lingering behind, affection, drowned in grief,
Looks round in vain, despairing of relief;
Impatient of the chastisement, we mourn,
And grieve for pleasures that no more return;
Mingling our tears upon the senseless urn.
Invited home to realms of endless day,
Lingering behind, affection, drowned in grief,
Looks round in vain, despairing of relief;
Impatient of the chastisement, we mourn,
And grieve for pleasures that no more return;
Mingling our tears upon the senseless urn.
But we forget that virtue can not die,
Eternal joys now bless our friend on high;
The soul still lives far from this clayey bed,
He is not here, but risen from the dead.
Ere we are called to lay these bodies by,
Let us his virtues imitate, and try,
Like him to live, and then like him to die.
Eternal joys now bless our friend on high;
The soul still lives far from this clayey bed,
He is not here, but risen from the dead.
Ere we are called to lay these bodies by,
Let us his virtues imitate, and try,
Like him to live, and then like him to die.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |