![]() | A book of Bristol sonnets | ![]() |
105
EDWARD COLSTON.
BORN IN THIS CITY, NOVEMBER 2, 1636.
Who threw down guineas, but required his pence,His hands are dust, his purpose still survives,
What God had given unto us he gives,
And generations own his providence!
Hence, Age is honoured, Sailors rest; and hence,
The gold he brought to learning's busy hives
Feeds a fresh swarm for work; the Scholar thrives,
Blessed by the sad-faced man's benevolence!
Each widow—Wife, each orphan called he—Child;
So to the Lord did all his riches lend!
He spake few words; but though men frowned or smiled,
Stood by his speech in honour to the end!
So wise his love, that dead they only missed
His homely presence,—true Philanthropist!
![]() | A book of Bristol sonnets | ![]() |