VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE, OF LOTHERSDALE,
ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS,
[_]
Who, with seven others of his religious community, had
suffered a long confinement in the Castle of York, and
loss of all his worldly property, for conscience sake, in
the years 1795 and 1796. He was a thoughtful, humble-minded
man, and occasionally solaced himself with “Prison
Amusements” in verse, at the time when the Author of
these Stanzas, in a neighbouring room, was whiling away
the hours of a shorter captivity in the same manner.
“Spirit, leave thine house of clay;
Lingering Dust, resign thy breath!
Spirit, cast thy chains away;
Dust, be thou dissolved in death!”
Thus thy Guardian Angel spoke,
As he watch'd thy dying bed;
As the bonds of life he broke;
And the ransom'd captive fled.
“Prisoner, long detain'd below;
Prisoner, now with freedom blest;
Welcome from a world of woe,
Welcome to a land of rest!”
Thus thy Guardian Angel sang,
As he bore thy soul on high;
While with Hallelujahs rang
All the region of the sky.
—Ye that mourn a Father's loss,
Ye that weep a Friend no more,
Call to mind the Christian cross
Which your Friend, your Father, bore.
Grief, and penury, and pain
Still attended on his way;
And Oppression's scourge and chain,
More unmerciful than they.
Yet, while travelling in distress
('Twas the eldest curse of sin)
Through the world's waste wilderness,
He had paradise within.
And along that vale of tears
Which his humble footsteps trod,
Still a shining path appears
Where the Mourner walk'd with GOD.
Till his Master, from above,
When the promised hour was come,
Sent the chariot of his love
To convey the Wanderer home.
Saw ye not the wheels of fire,
And the steeds that cleft the wind?
Saw ye not his soul aspire,
When his mantle dropp'd behind?
Ye who caught it as it fell,
Bind that mantle round your breast;
So in you his meekness dwell,
So on you his spirit rest!
Yet, rejoicing in his lot,
Still shall Memory love to weep
O'er the venerable spot
Where his dear cold relics sleep.
Grave! the guardian of his dust,
Grave! the treasury of the skies,
Every atom of thy trust
Rests in hope again to rise.
Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls—
“Soul, rebuild thine house of clay:
Immortality thy walls,
And Eternity thy day!”
