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ON THE DEATH OF

MR. W. WIGHTMAN,

MY EARLIEST AND MOST VALUED FRIEND.

BY W. M. HETHERINGTON, A. M.

Author of "Scottish Pastorals."

AND can it be? Art thou too gone?
Thou elder brother of my soul!
Hast thou too reached the church-yard stone?
Poor human nature's final goal?
Quench'd is that kind eye's living ray,
That friendly voice is mute for aye,
No more strong feelings tide-like sway

O'er that warm heart shall roll!

Oh! how my very heart-strings yearn

To realise the golden dream,

As Memory from her mystic urn

Pours forth of Time reversed the stream!

Oh! to renew the blissful days,

When my rapt eye would on him gaze,

Till from his bright soul's lustrous blaze
Mine caught a kindred gleam!

Even now his voice so calm, so clear,

So truly echoing from the heart, Seems melting on my dreaming ear,

Oh! might that dream no more depart!
There speaks the Sage, serene and mild;
The Poet, tender, ardent, wild;

In mind the Man, in heart the Child,
Stranger to guile and art!

'Tis past, and vainly I deplore!

Shall I behold him, hear him, feel
The warm grasp of his hands no more?
For him has knoll'd the hollow peal,
His steps have pass'd from earth away,
O'er him has clos'd the sullen clay,
For him no more the dawning day,
Its glories shall reveal!

If this were so, well might I weep,

Well might my heart with anguish bleed !

If Death were an eternal sleep,

Then Death were terrible indeed!

If the dear forms we loved so well

In blank oblivion's dreary cell

Were doomed for evermore to dwell,

How cheerless were our meed!

But, Oh! bless'd truth! Death's fellest blow, Can only slay guilt, pain, and fear!

Why shrink we then in doubt and woe,
When our Physician's steps draws near!
Tho' keen the pang that rends apart
The clinging fibres of the heart,
Yet, hail! Deliverer as thou art!

Earth's prisoners wait thee here!

Thy fate I mourn not, dearest, best,

And first of friends! my own I mourn: Thine, now, is heaven's untroubled rest, While here I linger, sad, and lorn! Thou, whose high worth my soul rever'd, Whose counsel wise my doubtings clear'd Whose soothing words my dark hour cheer'd, Thou'rt from my bosom torn!

If pure affection cannot die,

O! Sainted Spirit of my friend! From thine abode of bliss on high

To me in sweet communion bend! Meet me with day's departing beams, While lone I stray by rushing streams, Or come to me amid my dreams,

And with my spirit blend!

Yes, yes! thou wilt! and when I feel
Across the billows of my breast

A calm unwonted blandly steal,

Soothing their wild turmoil to rest,

My soul in pleasing, rapturous pain,
The lost, the found shall hail again!-
Shall long to burst life's galling chain,

And join, with thee, the blest!

Then let me check the farewell sigh,-
Unworthy him, to heaven unjust!
The farewell tear dash from mine eye,-

Why weep a soul's release from dust?
Woes, pains, and trials all are o'er,
They died in death, they live no more,
Yet shall the vanquish'd grave restore
Its consecrated trust!

Sleep, then! thou dear departed Friend!

Sleep, till Fate's storms be all o'erblown! Sleep, till Time's jarrings shall have end, Evil be smitten from his throne! Soon low as thine my home shall be! Oh! may I rise in bliss with thee, When Christ in heavenly majesty

Shall come to claim his own!

ON

THE DEATH OF GEORGE IV.

BY THE REV. JOHN BROWN PATTERSON, A. M.

"I have said, Ye are gods; but ye shall die like men."Psalm Ixxxii. 6, 7.

66

So spake the Lord of old by his word to the princes of Israel: so speaketh he in all generations by his providence to the princes of every people. I have said, Ye are gods;" ye are exalted to such sovereign dignity and sovereign power, in the administration of God's ordinance of government committed to your hands, as renders your state, in some

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