Death of the Rev. Alfred Mitchell

So near thy home, blest saint? Thy Father's houseHath many mansions, if it were not soHe would have told thee, who hath there prepar'dA place for thee, his servant. Earth's arrayOf charms was strong to tempt thy lingering love.The fond communings round thy native hearth,Where 'mid the honor'd and the blest did blendSoul deep with soul, thy own unclouded home,Thy answer'd sympathies, thy hallow'd hopes,A parent's joys close clustering round thy heart,The flock that gather'd near thee, pleas'd to learnFrom thy mild eye, and lip benign, the willOf the Chief Shepherd,—ties like these were thine.—And one there is, who with a widow'd heartThrough the lone shadows of life's pilgrim-path,Will follow in thy footsteps, even as thouDidst follow Christ.Thy pleasant spot of birthIs sad without thee, and an ancient headCircled with years and blessings as a crownBows low with the first pang thou e'er didst causeA father's bosom. Ah! and there are tearsOf tender love in many an eye for thee,Sackcloth and ashes in the house of God.'Tis well. Pure spirits should not pass unmourn'd,This earth is poor without them. But a viewOf better climes broke on thee, and thy soul

Rose o'er its stricken tent with outspread wingOf seraph rapture: for to reach a homeWhere is no restless hope, no vain desire,No film o'er faith's bright eye, for love no blight,Is glorious gain: and lo! that home is thine.