Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd

On The Death Of A Poor But Excellent Man

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Spirit! from thy clay ascending,
Seek thy native seat above,
Angels thro' the air attending
To the God of Grace and Love!


Long have sin and woe combining,
Haggard care and pallid fear,
Show'd thy patience calmly shining,
Caus'd the sigh, the groan, the tear.


Oft the storms of sorrow roaring,
Beat upon thine aching head,
Oft we saw thee guilt deploring
All thy path with thistles spread:


Still amid each dread commotion
Thou on God thy hope hast stay'd,
When the loud tempestuous ocean
Made the stoutest heart afraid.


Now thy soul, its prison leaving,
Finds the harbor wish'd for long,
Ceas'd thy woe and ceas'd thy grieving,
Join'd the blest angelic song.


Round thy couch in deep dejection
Stood thy wife and children dear;
All the anguish of affection,
Wrung the sad, the silent tear;


Still we saw, thy Saviour aiding,
Tears did ne'er thy cheeks bedew;
Endless bliss and joy unfading,
Open'd on thy raptur'd view.


Thou couldst leave thy friends with pleasure,
Leave them to the God of Love,
Haste to take thine endless treasure,
Haste to join the hosts above.


Tho' no sculptur'd stone, adorning,
Show the place where goodness sleeps,
There affection daily mourning,
With sincerest sorrow weeps.


Softly blow, ye breezes, cheering,
Breathing sweetly 'round the grave,
Where he lies no evil fearing,
Let the stream the verdure lave.


Constant bloom, ye blushing roses,
Cast around your sweet perfumes,
Where his dust in peace reposes,
Who, like you, in glory blooms.


Violets lowly beauteous blowing,
Gilded o'er with drops of dew,
Florish here, your sweets bestowing,
He was humble, pure as you!


Gently pass'd the spirit joying,
Angels kiss'd the soul away,
Songs of praise their harps employing
Bore aloft to endless day.


Sweetest music softly playing,
Charming songs, melodious glee,
Whilst the soul in robes arraying
Heav'n-like chanted victory.


Spirit! from thy blissful pleasures,
Look on those who once were dear,
Turning from thy heav'nly treasures,
If thou canst, bestow a tear.--


Whilst to heav'nly joys ascending,
Thou attain'st the blissful skies,
May we thither onward bending,
Catch thy mantle as it flies!--


May we, Heav'n, this blessing giving,
Meet like thee with aid divine,
And like thee, in virtue living,
Death obtain as sweet as thine.

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Sir Thomas Noon Talfourd