 | [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir for MDCCCXXXVII |  |
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ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF BISHOP WHITE.
From the watch-tower of Zion a Soldier is gone,
Whose shield in the sunbeams of righteousness shone;
Whose mild, warning voice among multitudes fell—
Who loved of the glories of Heaven to tell.
He has gone to enjoy them!—where age is unknown,
Where Sin has no dwelling, and Pain has no throne;
Rewarded with recompense rich, he is blest,
In the land of delight—in a mansion of rest.
Whose shield in the sunbeams of righteousness shone;
Whose mild, warning voice among multitudes fell—
Who loved of the glories of Heaven to tell.
He has gone to enjoy them!—where age is unknown,
Where Sin has no dwelling, and Pain has no throne;
Rewarded with recompense rich, he is blest,
In the land of delight—in a mansion of rest.
He has fought the good fight—he has finished the faith—
He has burst from the thraldom of sorrow and death;
From sickness, from weeping, from funeral hours,
He hath soared to the region of sunshine and flowers;
And his eyes, unbeclouded, are gazing abroad
On the river of life, and the city of God;
On scenes which no pencil or pen can portray—
Where the splendours of Heaven unceasingly play.
He has burst from the thraldom of sorrow and death;
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He hath soared to the region of sunshine and flowers;
And his eyes, unbeclouded, are gazing abroad
On the river of life, and the city of God;
On scenes which no pencil or pen can portray—
Where the splendours of Heaven unceasingly play.
Shall we mourn for the Patriarch who feared not the tomb,
That his spirit is blest with the absence of gloom?
That he totters no more on the verge of the grave—
That he leans upon One who is mighty to save?
Whose smile cheered the pathway he tremblingly trod,
To the beautiful gates of the palace of God,
Whose arm was his stay, as triumphant he rose,
To rejoice in the realms of eternal repose.
That his spirit is blest with the absence of gloom?
That he totters no more on the verge of the grave—
That he leans upon One who is mighty to save?
Whose smile cheered the pathway he tremblingly trod,
To the beautiful gates of the palace of God,
Whose arm was his stay, as triumphant he rose,
To rejoice in the realms of eternal repose.
Ah, no! could we see the bright waters that shine,
Neath the fair tree of life with its fruitage divine;
Could we hear the sweet anthems that gladden the air,
And tell that the Ransomed are glorified there,
We should sorrow no more; but for those that remain,
Whose garments are washed in the blood of the slain,
We should hail the loved promise of God, in his word—
Thrice blest are the dying, who die in the Lord!
Neath the fair tree of life with its fruitage divine;
Could we hear the sweet anthems that gladden the air,
And tell that the Ransomed are glorified there,
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Whose garments are washed in the blood of the slain,
We should hail the loved promise of God, in his word—
Thrice blest are the dying, who die in the Lord!
Philadelphia.
| [Poems by Clark in] The religious souvenir for MDCCCXXXVII | |