Awd Isaac :: :: University of Virginia Library

Heard you that groan? 'Twas from a dying man!
A man just gone into Eternity!”
“Redeem thy time! Thy life is but a span!”
That language,—Hark! It speaks to you and me!

A man of health, and strength, and spirits gay,
The solemn call seem'd distant to his view;
But, lo, how soon the victim's snatch'd away
By Death's rude hand, and bids the world adieu!

Fearless of danger, he, twelve days before,
Went to the field to share the common lot,
With the sharp scythe to cut the grass or flower,
But, ah, the secret lesson he forgot!

“All flesh is grass, or like the flowery field,
So soon 'tis faded, wither'd, or cut down;
To time's embrace its charms are fore'd to yield,
The winds pass over it, and it is gone!”

When heated by the sun's meridian ray,
And parch'd with thirst, to drink he felt inclin'd,
Dropping his scythe, poor Morley took his way,
In hopes some cool, refreshing stream to find!

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To yonder river to receive his death,
With sweat, like dewdrops, hanging on his brow,
He hastes—nor thinks he must resign his breath,
And to the lonely church-yard shortly go!

Thus bathed in sweat the river's bank he gains,
And drinks, and washes in the crystal flood;
When lo! an icy coldness chills his veins,
Affects his senses, and inflames his blood!

He medical assistance quickly sought,
Excessive pain depriv'd his eyes of sleep;
Physicians soon their powerful medicines brought,
But ah! the fatal dart had pierc'd too deep!

The fever rages, not a limb is free,
It mocks the power of remedies applied;
Friends weep, and wish for his recovery;—
Alas! their warmest wishes are denied.

His fate seems hard, but yet Heav'n sees it fit,
And Heaven's will is best, we must agree;—
Sooner or later we must all submit
To Death's loud call,—to nature's stern decree!

The surgeon blushes while his patient bleeds,
All hope soon vanishes of life below;
With hasty step the monster Death proceeds,
Lifts his fell dart, and strikes the fatal blow!

His wife distracted doth her loss deplore,
His children weep as though their hearts would break;
They shrieking cry, “Our father is no more!
O where shall we our lonely refuge seek?

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Where shall we find so true, so kind a friend?
Where shall we find a sharer in our grief?
Where shall we find a Father to attend,—
To wipe our tears, or point us to relief?”

O haste! O haste! the house of prayer attend,
And plead your cause, bow'd at your Saviour's feet;
To Heaven daily let your prayers ascend,
And there a Friend, and Father you shall meet!

Poor Morley's dead! the startled village cries!
His wife, a widow, has in tears to grieve!
While he, outstretched, now pale and silent lies,
Nor tongue, nor eye, nor hand a motion give!

No more his whistle echo's through the grove,
Nor clashing gates pursue his loaded steed;
No more he through the fields doth rove,
To play the flute, or blow the rustic reed!

No more the rolling flood's at his controul,
Nor willing servant runs when he shall bid;
But mournfully I hear the death bell toll,
To hail him welcome to his lonely bed!

But Oh, the soul! That ever during spark,
Kindled in him by the Almighty's breath,
Still lives, though we her passage cannot mark!—
She lives, though she hath pass'd the vale of death!

Where has she fled? What is her portion now,
While I upon his death thus meditate?
'Tis mystery this we mortals must not know,—
And cries, “Prepare ye, for a future state!”

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Her portion's that for which she was prepar'd;—
Though suddenly remov'd from earth below,
No more can she reject her just reward,
She shares eternal happiness, or woe!

To trace her flight might but insult her King,
Since He for guilty sinners once did bleed!—
The muse in silence drops her feeble wing,
Refusing any further to proceed!