Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined, Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd, How did delirious fancy dwell There was on earth no PoWER to save : VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE, OF LOTHERSDALE, ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS, Who had suffered a long Confinement in the Castle of York, and Loss of all his worldly Property, for Conscience Sake. "SPIRIT, leave thine house of clay; Thus thy GUARDIAN ANGEL spoke, "Prisoner, long detain❜d below; Thus thy GUARDIAN ANGEL sang, -Ye that mourn a FATHER's loss, Ye that weep a FRIEND no more ! Call to mind the CHRISTIAN cross, Which your FRIEND, your FATHER bore. Grief and penury and pain Still attended on his way, And Oppression's scourge and chain, More unmerciful than they. Yet while travelling in distress, Through the world's waste wilderness, And along that vale of tears, Which his humble footsteps trod, Still a shining path appears, Where the MOURNER walk'd with GOD. Till his MASTER, from above, When the promised hour was come, Sent the chariot of his love To convey the WANDERER home. Saw ye not the wheels of fire, And the steeds that cleft the wind? Saw ye not his soul aspire, When his mantle dropp'd behind? Ye who caught it as it fell, Yet, rejoicing in his lot, breast; Still shall Memory love to weep Where his dear cold relics sleep. Grave! the guardian of his dust, Grave! the treasury of the skies, Rests in hope again to rise. Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls"Soul, rebuild thine house of clay; IMMORTALITY thy walls, And ETERNITY thy day!" THE THUNDER-STORM. O FOR evening's brownest shade! Round the hermitage of HEALTH : O'er the sick and sultry plains, And the wanness of despair : Now in deep and dreadful gloom, Hung o'er NATURE's shrinking head : |