The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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ON THE
DEATH OF THOMAS COOPER, ESQ.,
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS COOPER, ESQ.,
SURGEON, BINGLEY.
How bootless are our tears, though ev'ry drop
Springs from the fountain of a sorrowing heart!
No sorrow death's relentless hand can stop,
Or, for a moment, turn aside his dart.
Springs from the fountain of a sorrowing heart!
No sorrow death's relentless hand can stop,
Or, for a moment, turn aside his dart.
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Affection's ties, without remorse, he breaks:
Lo! 'neath his feet, our friend, dear Cooper, lies!
He moves not, when a tender sister speaks,
Nor sees a father's hopeless agonies.
Lo! 'neath his feet, our friend, dear Cooper, lies!
He moves not, when a tender sister speaks,
Nor sees a father's hopeless agonies.
Death! thou hast slain the noblest of thy foes—
One who oft rescued victims mark'd by thee—
One who could sympathise in others' woes,
And forms of beauty from thy grasp set free.
One who oft rescued victims mark'd by thee—
One who could sympathise in others' woes,
And forms of beauty from thy grasp set free.
Friend of our soul! in him we could confide
In weal or woe—but now our friend is gone!
We ask by whom his place can be supplied;
And hopeless sorrow, weeping, answers—none!
In weal or woe—but now our friend is gone!
We ask by whom his place can be supplied;
And hopeless sorrow, weeping, answers—none!
Nor midnight hour, nor wildest winds of heaven;
Nor pelting showers of rain, or snow, or hail;
Nor perilous paths through forests, tempest-riven;
Nor raging hurricanes could aught avail
Nor pelting showers of rain, or snow, or hail;
Nor perilous paths through forests, tempest-riven;
Nor raging hurricanes could aught avail
His visits to the afflicted to restrain:
Through these he rode, regardless of his health,
The blessed harbinger of ease to pain,
Alike to homes of poverty or wealth.
Through these he rode, regardless of his health,
The blessed harbinger of ease to pain,
Alike to homes of poverty or wealth.
Hundreds, on sickbeds, oft have yearn'd to hear
His welcome step, and bless'd him when he came!
Hope dawn'd when their Samaritan stood near,
With soothing balsams for the suffering frame.
His welcome step, and bless'd him when he came!
Hope dawn'd when their Samaritan stood near,
With soothing balsams for the suffering frame.
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But 'tis the last, the last sad solemn day,
When by his mourning friends, his dear remains
To their last home, are slowly borne away,
And the deep death-knoll peals in dirge-like strains.
When by his mourning friends, his dear remains
To their last home, are slowly borne away,
And the deep death-knoll peals in dirge-like strains.
Alas! he who has oft renew'd the springs
Of life in bosoms sickness had oppress'd,
The comforter, with healing on his wings—
Has pass'd from earth to his eternal rest.
Of life in bosoms sickness had oppress'd,
The comforter, with healing on his wings—
Has pass'd from earth to his eternal rest.
But he has left a blessed name,
That long shall live in many a grateful heart:
His good deeds are his monumental fame,
Which will survive all boasted works of art.
That long shall live in many a grateful heart:
His good deeds are his monumental fame,
Which will survive all boasted works of art.
We feel, what words in full can ne'er explain,
A weight of woe at loss of one so lov'd;
But hope our loss is his eternal gain,
In the bright land to which he is remov'd.
A weight of woe at loss of one so lov'd;
But hope our loss is his eternal gain,
In the bright land to which he is remov'd.
The grave receives his dust, which there shall lie,
Till in the clouds appear the great white throne;
And the last trumpet pealing from the sky,
Bid “mortal immortality put on.”
Till in the clouds appear the great white throne;
And the last trumpet pealing from the sky,
Bid “mortal immortality put on.”
Oh! shall no meet memento of our love
Mark the dear spot where his remains repose?
Yes, we will plant his honour'd dust above,
The early snow-drop, and the fragrant rose;
Mark the dear spot where his remains repose?
Yes, we will plant his honour'd dust above,
The early snow-drop, and the fragrant rose;
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And there, when to God's house we come to pray,
On holy Sabbaths, in the circling years,
We will at early morn our visits pay,
And bathe the flowers with true affection's tears.
On holy Sabbaths, in the circling years,
We will at early morn our visits pay,
And bathe the flowers with true affection's tears.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |