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ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER, MRS. ELIZABETH
Come, sad Melpomene, and aid my verse,
Shall I repeat the sorrows of her soul ? No, Jesus' precious blood has made them whole: Shall I the troubles of her life relate ? They were so varied, num'rous, and so great, That none but their appointer can declare ; And those who in the like afflictions share. Shall I my subject make, that heavy rod Which brought her spirit home to dwell with God? Shall I unfold the melancholy scene? I would....but her command steps in between: She sleeps....she's safely lodg'd in Jesus' breast; Eternal silence dwell upon the rest;
Or, if it must be nam'd, then let it be
* A few moments before she expired, she pronounced the word angel, with such an emphasis, as left no room for her friends to doubt but what she really saw some glorious ap.
No more encompass'd with infirmity;
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF THE REV. DR. WOUDE,
PASTOR OF THE CALVINIST CHURCH IN THE
Go, happy Woude, clap thy bright wings, and soar
To the bright realms of everlasting day ; The happy seat of rest, the peaceful shore,
Where saints and angels tune the choral lay.
Go, take thy harp, and join the rapturous song,
That echoes thro' the bless'd etherial plains ; Swell the glad anthems of the ransom'd throng,
In the fair world where love immortal reigns.
The gospel's silver trump long hast thou blown,
And pointed sinners to the living way; With warning voice, their guilt and danger shewn,
And preach'd the blood that takes their guilt away.
Long hast thou fought the battles of the Lord;
Now, all victorious, lo! thou bear'st the palm ; Supported by the Spirit and the word;
And leaning on the mighty Saviour's arm.
Steadfast thou stood'st, tho' storms tumultuous rose;
But storms tumultuous can no more molest : More than triumphant over hosts of foes ;
Now all is calm composure in thy breast.
Hail, happy Woude! thro' many rolling years,
The saint, by love inspir’d, wak'd with his God : Now joyful in his presence, he appears
Welcome to all the glories of his Lord.
Here he beholds the lamb for sinners slain,
And crown'd with blessedness extreme, shall live Long as the great incarnate God shall reign;
And prove the choicest blessings God can give.
Then cease to weep, ye follow'rs of the lamb,
Who mourn your pastor, lately call’d to heav'n: If ye revere, and love his honor'd name,
Rejoice that to his hand the prize is giv'n.
In vain the boasting tyrant of the grave,
Erects a trophy o'er his sleeping clay ; Jesus the God, omnipotent to save,
Shall call it forth at the great rising day.
Then shall the monster death a victor own,
And life, immortal life forever reign : Triumphant saints shall their Redeemer crown
And joy and wonder fill th' heav'nly train.
Then check your sorrows, and with steady eye
Behold the track your faithful pastor trod :