The Departed Pastor

You will not see him more. You whose young thoughtsBlent with his image, who to manhood grewBeneath the shelter of his saintly shade,Bringing your tender infants to his handFor the baptismal water, and lived onAmid his teachings, till the silver hairsCame all unlook'd for, stealing o'er your brow,You will not see him more.There was a placeWhere, duly as the day of God return'd,His solemn voice held converse with the skiesFor you and yours, till more than fourscore yearsSwept in deep billows o'er him. You will hearThat voice no more.There stands his ancient house,Where, with the partner of his heart, he sharedAffection's joys so long, and fondly mark'dHis children and his children's children riseClustering around his board.Remember yeHis cordial welcome? how he freely dealtA patriarch's wisdom, in monitions kindTo all who sought him? how, with hallow'd graceOf bounteous hospitality, he gaveExample of those virtues, pure and sweet,

Which, round the hearth-stone rooting, have their fruitWhere men are judged?He linger'd with you late,Till all the loved companions of his youthHad gone to rest. Yet so he loved your souls,That for their sakes he willingly sustain'dLife's toil and cumbrance, and stood forth alone,An aged oak, amid the fallen grove.

—His Master call'd.It was the Sabbath morn:And he had girded up his loins to speakA message in the Temple. Time had strownThe almond-blossom, and his head was whiteAs snows of winter, yet his step was firm,And in his heart the same unblenching zealThat warm'd his youth.But, lo! the Master call'd.So, laying down the Bible that he loved,That single weapon he so meek had borneThrough all life's tribulation, he gave backThe spirit to its Giver, and went home;Yes, full of honours as of days, went home.