The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Many, my friend, have mourn'd for Thee,
And yet shall many mourn,
Long as thy name on earth shall be
In sweet remembrance borne,
By those who loved Thee here, and love
Thy Spirit still in realms above.

For while thine absence they deplore,
'Tis for themselves they weep:
Though they behold thy face no more,
In peace thine ashes sleep,
And o'er the tomb they lift their eye,
—Thou art not dead, Thou couldst not die

In silent anguish, O my friend!
When I recall thy worth,
Thy lovely life, thine early end,
I feel estranged from earth;
My soul with thine desires to rest,
Supremely and for ever blest.

In loftier mood I fain would raise
With my victorious breath
Some fair memorial of thy praise,
Beyond the reach of Death;
Proud wish, and vain!—I cannot give
The word, that makes the dead to live.

Thou art not dead, Thou couldst not die;
To nobler life new-born,
Thou look'st in pity from the sky
Upon a world forlorn,
Where glory is but dying flame,
And immortality a name.

Yet didst Thou prize the Poet's art;
And when to Thee I sung,
How pure, how fervent from the heart,
The language of thy tongue!
In praise or blame alike sincere,
But still most kind when most severe.

When first this dream of ancient times
Warm on my fancy glow'd,
And forth in rude spontaneous rhymes
The Song of Wonder flow'd;
Pleased but alarm'd, I saw Thee stand,
And check'd the fury of my hand.

That hand with awe resumed the lyre,
I trembled, doubted, fear'd,
Then did thy voice my hope inspire,
My soul thy presence cheer'd;
But suddenly the light was flown,—
I look'd, and found myself alone!

Alone, in sickness, care, and woe,
Since that bereaving day,
With heartless patience, faint and low,
I trill'd the secret lay,
Afraid to trust the bold design
To less indulgent ears than thine.

'Tis done;—nor would I dread to meet
The World's repulsive brow,
Had I presented at thy feet
The Muse's trophy now,
And gain'd the smile I long'd to gain,
The pledge of labour not in vain.

Full well I know, if Thou wert here,
A pilgrim still with me,—
Dear as my theme was once, and dear
As I was once to Thee,—
Too mean to yield Thee pure delight,
The strains that now the world invite:

Yet could they reach Thee where thou art,
And sounds might Spirits move,
Their better, their diviner part,
Thou surely wouldst approve;
Though heavenly thoughts are all thy joy,
And Angel-Songs thy tongue employ.

My task is o'er; and I have wrought
With self-rewarding toil,
To raise the scatter'd seed of thought
Upon a desert soil:
O for soft winds and clement showers!
I seek not fruit,—I planted flowers.

Those flowers I train'd, of many a hue,
Along thy path to bloom;
And little thought, that I must strew
Their leaves upon thy tomb:
—Beyond that tomb I lift mine eye,
Thou art not dead, Thou couldst not die.

Farewell: but not a long farewell!
In heaven may I appear,
The trials of my faith to tell
In thy transported ear,
And sing with Thee the eternal strain,
“Worthy the Lamb that once was slain.”

Sheffield, January 23. 1813.