University of Virginia Library

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AN ELEGY To the Memory OF That pious and eminent Servant of JESUS CHRIST, THE REVEREND Mr. GEORGE WHITEFIELD,

Who departed this Life the 30th of September, 1770.

Ætatis SUÆ 56.

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TO THE REVEREND MATHER BYLES, D. D.

These TEARS sprinkled upon the Ashes of his deceased BROTHER, are gratefully inscribed

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Malice be dumb! now sheath thy pointless sting,
Let sick'ning Envy dart her shafts no more,
Let soul Detraction drop her Ebon wing,
And spew her poison on th' infernal shore.

But come heav'n's radiant Offspring! hither throng,
Behold your Prophet, your Elijah fled;
Let deep distress now palsy ev'ry tongue,
WHITEFIELD the Gabriel of mankind—is dead.

Where are his dulcet periods? Where the grace?
The soft persuasive magic of his voice?
That heav'nly harp which rung immortal lays,
And limn'd religion to the sinners choice.

Where is the vollied thunder of his zeal?
The solemn pathos of the wrestler's prayer?
That held fierce conflict with the pow'rs of hell,
And thinn'd the dreary regions of despair.

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The ice of Death has quench'd the seraph's flame;
Mute is the tongue, that charm'd the world before:
The Grave's strong setters bind his precious frame,
He speaks, he pleads, he prays, he weeps—no more.

He sprung at once, and flung corruption by,
Forlook the warfare, but to catch the prize:
Full on the crown he held his steady eye,
And storm'd the golden portals of the skies.

Blest visitant! we scarce forgive thy speed,
Scourg'd by surprize, we murmur at the rod,
And rebel sondness fain would interceed,
To tear thee from the bosom of thy God.

While smiling Angels thine arrival greet,
And plausive Cherubs shout thy title fair:
A world in tears shall reach thy glad retreat,
And snatch one pang, from endless raptures there.

Forgive the tempest, should our sorrows rave,
While o'er thy mould'ring dust our heads decline;
We wish to glut the av'rice of the grave,
Bid us to die,—'tis harder to resign.

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Who rear'd yon hallow'd PILE on Georgia's strand,
And led fair Science to the savage soil?
Sacred to GOD, the monument shall stand,
And tutor'd Orphans bless the builder's toil.

Who compass'd oceans, travers'd every shore,
The busy herald of his Saviour's love?
Heav'n's swiftest envoy scarce could labour more
Or raise such levies, to the choirs above.

Who brav'd the tempest, try'd the various clime,
Encounter'd dangers, and embrac'd distress?
To point our view beyond the wreck of time,
And in that prospect, to instruct, and bless.

Who rais'd the humble, startled the secure?
And shook proud rebels, from their gilded car?
To plaintive Lazars shed the balm of cure,
And with bold sceptics wag'd successful war.

Who heir'd from God, sagacity divine,
To pierce the human heart's remotest cell;
To drag each sell usurper from his shrine,
And lash reluctant demons into hell.

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Who cinctur'd virtue, in unsullied white,
Emboss'd with stars, and smiling heav'nly fair?
Who vice pourtray'd, so baneful to the sight,
The monster shudder'd at her image there?

Such Whitefield is thy praise: while here you sleep,
And deck this shore with consecrated dust;
O'er thy cold urn shall widow'd virtue weep,
While pensive Angels guard the darling trust.

O thou, our Father! Pastor! Guide! and Friend!
What richer benison could'st thou bestow?
In prayer for us thy dying heart to rend,
And fall—still struggling to redeem from woe.

Such heav'n survey'd thee with paternal care,
Swift was the summons, and with joy obey'd;
Immortal pleasures woo'd thy presence there,
And everlasting love sustain'd thy head.

Blest Saint! forever will we claim the tye,
For pious friendship, tho' ally'd to clay,
Is own'd by God, a tenant of the sky,
To blaze and brighten, through eternal day.

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Thy rich remains shall shed a sweet perfume,
There shall the worthy drop the pious tear,
And cry, while bending o'er thy hallow'd tomb,
“LORD! may we love thee, like thy Servant here.

Hark! Albion groans, his poor deserted Flock,
When will the blessed wand'rer cease to roam?
How could our bosoms bear the dreadful shock,
Should his dear JESUS take our Master home?

O'er the broad margin of the western deep,
Methinks they beckon their departed Sire;
With fond impatience wait, and gaze and weep,
Till sad and faint, reluctant they retire.

Alas! your Shepherd, will no more return,
The weeping stranger generous aid supplies;
Around his dying pillow, strangers mourn,
With tears fast-falling, strangers seal his eyes.

Along these coasts his reliques shall be sought,
Some grateful hand a Monument shall raise:
Some British bard in elegance of thought,
On sculptur'd marble shall record his praise.

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