Heaven the residence of the saints a sermon occasioned by the sudden, and much lamented death of the Rev. George Whitefield, A.M. chaplain to the Right-Honourable the Countess of Huntington, delivered at the Thursday lecture in Boston, in America, October 11, 1770 |
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An ELEGIAC POEM |
 | Heaven the residence of the saints |  |
An ELEGIAC POEM
On the DEATH of that celebrated Divine, and eminent
Servant of Jesus Christ. the Reverend and Learned
Mr GEORGE WHITEFIELD,
Chaplain to the Right Honourable the
Countess of HUNTINGTON, &c.
Who made his Exit from this transitory State, to dwell in the
celestial Realms of Bliss, on Lord's Day, 30th Sept. 1770.
when he was seized with a Fit of the Althma, at Newbury-Port,
near Boston, New-England.
In which is a Consolatory Address to his truly noble Benefactress
the worthy and pious Lady Huntington; and the Orphan
Children in Georgia, who, with many Thousands are left,
by the Death of this great Man, to lament the Loss of a
Father, Friend, and Benefactor.
By PHILLIS,
A Servant Girl of Seventeen Years of Age, belonging to
Mr J. Wheatley of Boston:
She has been but Nine Years in this Country from Africa.
To thee Complaints of Grievance are unknown;
We hear no more the Music of thy Tongue;
Thy wonted Auditories cease to throng.
Thy Lessons in unequall'd Accents flow'd;
While emulation in each Bosom glow'd.
Thou didst, in Strains of Eloquence refin'd,
Inflame the Soul and captivate the Mind.
Unhappy we, the setting Sun deplore,
Which once was splendid, but it shines no more.
He leaves this Earth for Heaven's unmeasur'd Height;
And Worlds unknown receive Him from our Sight:
There Whitefield wings with rapid Course his Way,
And fails to Zion thro' vast Seas of Day.
When Streets were crimson'd with their guiltless Gore,
Unrivall'd Friendship in his Breast now strove;
The Fruit thereof was Charity and Love
Towards America—-Couldst thou do more
Than leave thy native Home, the British Shore,
To cross the great Atlantic's wat'ry Road,
To see America's distress'd Abode?
Thy Prayers, great Saint, and thy incessant Cries,
Have pierc'd the Bosom of thy native Skies!
Thou, Moon, hast seen, and ye, bright Stars of Light,
Have witness been of his Requests by Night.
He pray'd that Grace in every Heart might dwell:
He long'd to see America excel;
He charg'd its Youth to let the Grace Divine
Arise, and in their future Actions shine;
He offer'd THAT he did himself receive,
A greater Gift not God himself can give:
He urg'd the Need of Him to every one;
It was no less than God's co-equal Son.
Take Him, ye wretched, for your only Good;
Take Him, ye starving Souls, to be your Food.
Ye Thirsty, come to this Life-giving Stream:
Ye Preachers, take him for your joyful Theme:
Take HIM, "my dear Americans," he said;
Be your Complaints in his kind Bosom laid:
Take HIM, ye Africans, he longs for you;
Impartial Saviour, is his Title due;
If you will choose to walk in Grace's Road,
You shall be Sons, and Kings, and Priests to God.
Thy Name, and thus condole thy Grief sincere:
We mourn with thee, that TOMB obscurely plac'd,
In which thy Chaplain undisturb'd doth rest.
New-England, sure, doth feel; the Orphan's Smart
Reveals the true Sensations of his Heart:
Since this fair Sun withdraws his golden Rays,
No more to brighten these distressful Days,
His lonely Tabernacle sees no more
A Whitefield landing on the British Shore:
Then let us view Him in yon azure Skies:
Let every Mind with this lov'd Object rise.
No more can he exert his lab'ring Breath,
Seiz'd by the cruel Messenger of Death.
What can his dear America return,
But drop a Tear upon his happy Urn?
Thou, Tomb, shalt safe retain thy sacred Trust,
Till Life Divine re-animates his Dust.
| Heaven the residence of the saints | |