ELEGIES.

160863

TO THE MEMORY

OF

BISHOP HOBART AND THE REV. E. D. GRIFFIN.

Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus

Tam cari capitis?

HORACE, B. I., O. 24.

THERE was a light, a beaming light,
Within the temple's holiest bound,
Which threw to our enraptured sight
A splendor all the temple round.
Upon the golden candlestick

It beamed in brilliant purity,
And lit with heavenly ray the thick
Dark cloud of human misery.

There was an angel stationed high
Upon the watch-tower of the world ;

He bore the banner of the sky,

And wide its star of life unfurled. Above that dark and dreadful bound

Which severs life from death, he stood,

And pointed where e'en death is found,
A smiling cherub born of God.

That light is gone-that angel fled—
Ah! who shall tell the temple's gloom?
The watch-tower of that mitred head

Is now a sad and silent tomb.
Alas for Zion! and alas

For all who hold her honor dear!

Though time to other names may pass,
Thine, Hobart, still shall claim the tear.

Like Paul, he fought the noble fight-
He kept the faith, and wavered not;
Await him, then-how pure! how bright!-
The robe, the crown, which bear no spot.
With angels, and with spirits just,

What joyous greeting hath been made!
Life's early friends, long fled from dust,
The pure embrace of soul have paid.

Thou, too, young cherub of the skies,
Whose earthly form so early fell—
Thou, Griffin, into Paradise

Hast welcomed him who loved thee well. Why weep we, then, on Zion's hill,

Around the tomb where Hobart sleeps?

Alas! though heaven hath claimed him, still, The Church, with all her children weeps.

TO THE MEMORY

OF

THE REV. SUTHERLAND DOUGLAS,

3

WHO DIED IN LONDON, MAY 6, 1841.

o'er the billow

He was borne to the
grave far away
Nor father nor mother might weep o'er his pillow,
To the loved of his bosom no last look was given-
No last, parting look, full of hope and of heaven;
Nor sister nor brother might close the young eye
Of the stranger, who died as the young flowers die.
But he was not alone! One Friend had he there—
That Father in heaven, who heareth our prayer;
And an angel bent o'er him, to wipe the last tear,
And the Comforter whispered of Paradise near.
Dear friend of my youth! can I ever forget

Our sweet morn of life, when in gladness we met? When we wandered o'er hill, and o'er lawn, and by stream,

And believed, while we talked of the future-youth's dream!