STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE REV. THOMAS RAWSON TAYLOR, OF BRADFORD, IN YORKSHIRE
[_]
A young minister of great promise, and a poet of no mean
order, whose verses, entitled “Communion with the Dead,”
on the removal in early life of a sister, would endear and
perpetuate the remembrance of both, were they as generally
known as they deserve to be. The survivor died on the 7th
of March 1835, aged 28 years.
Millions of eyes have wept o'er frames
Once living, beautiful and young,
Now dust and ashes, and their names
Extinct on earth, because unsung:
Yet song itself hath but its day,
Like the swan's dirge,—a dying lay.
A dying lay I would rehearse,
In memory of one whose breath
Pour'd forth a stream of such sweet verse
As might have borne away from death
The trophy of a sister's name,
—Winning at once and giving fame.
But all is mortal here,—that song
Pass'd like the breeze, which steals from flowers
Their fragrance, yet repays the wrong
With dew-drops, shaken down in showers;
Ah! like those flowers with dew-drops fed,
They sprang, they blossom'd, they are dead.
The poet (spared a little while)
Follow'd the sister all too soon;
The hectic rose that flush'd his smile
Grew pale and wither'd long ere noon;
In youth's exulting prime he gave
What death demanded to the grave.
But that which death nor grave could seize,—
His soul,—into his Saviour's hands
(Who by the cross's agonies
Redeem'd a people from all lands)
He yielded, till “that day” to keep,
And then like Stephen fell asleep.
“That day” will come; meanwhile weep not,
O ye that loved him! and yet more
Love him for grief that “he is not:”—
Rather with joy let eyes run o'er,
And warm hearts hope his face to see
Where 'tis for ever “good to be.”
