Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By The British Months (1835) (November). Christian Consolation on the Death of FriendsRichard Mant (17761848)
I
Though tears of natural sorrow start,
’Tis mixt with pleasure when we grieve
For those the dearest to the heart,
From whom long-loved at length we part;
As by a Christian’s feelings led
We lay them in their peaceful bed.
The allotted pilgrimage on earth,
With earth-born passions grovelling low,
Enslaved to honour, avarice, mirth,
Unconscious of a nobler birth:
But such as tread with loftier scope
The Christian’s path with Christian hope.
Shall ne’er in this world’s pleasure share:
But sweet the thought that this world’s pain
No more is theirs; that this world’s care
It is no more their lot to bear.
And surely in this scene below
The joy is balanced by the woe.
The livid cheek, the sunken eye:
But sweet to think, corruption’s worm
The living spirit can defy,
And claim its kindred with the sky.
Lo! where the earthen vessel lies!
Aloft the unbodied tenant flies.
That form, those features loved, shall trace,
But sweet it is from memory’s store
To call each fondly-cherished grace,
And fold them in the heart’s embrace.
No bliss ’mid worldly crowds is bred,
Like musing on the sainted dead!
They ran, intent on works of love:
But sweet to think, no mixture base,
Which with their better nature strove,
Shall mar their virtuous deeds above.
Sin o’er their soul has lost his hold,
And left them with their earthly mould!
Apart from them each wonted spot:
But sweet to think, that they a home
Have gained; a fair and goodly lot,
Enduring, and that changeth not.
And who that home of freedom there
Will with his prison-house compare?
Severed from those we love remain:
’Tis joy to hope, that we shall find,
Exempt from sorrow, fear, and pain,
With them our dwelling-place again.
’Tis but like them to sink to rest,
With them to waken and be blest.
With thoughts that chasten and that cheer,
Grant me to fill my space assigned
For sojourning a stranger here
With holy hope and filial fear:
Fear to be banished far from Thee,
And hope Thy face unveiled to see!
By angel myriads compassed round,
“Made perfect” by the Saviour’s blood,
With virtue clothed, with honour crowned,
“The spirits of the just” are found:
There tears no more of sorrow start,
Pain flies the unmolested heart,
And life in bliss unites whom death no more shall part.