His mind with heavenly principles imbued,
Loved the deep calm of holy solitude;
There his great spirit, as his foot would tread
Their ashes, mingled with the mighty dead,
And, musing on the end of rank and birth,
Felt deep the vanity of things on earth.
And what were wealth, and fame, and pomp, and
But the frail pageants of a feverish hour?
And what were science, with her ample store,
And letters rich in fancy’s various lore.
Affection’s softer beam, or friendship’s ray.
But dreams that vanish at the dawn of day?
The world rang hollow underneath his feet.
For death was nigh, and death disclosed the cheat.
Sickened and sad, to Heaven he turned his eyes,
And sought for purer pleasures in the skies.
To faith unfolded, and by promise sure
To all who meekly to the end endure.
Heaven—Heaven he seeks—no respite—no delay—
To Heaven he wings his never wearying way;
And Heaven appears—and in that blessed abode
His soul forgets the struggles of the road.
In sweet repose upon the bosom of her God.
by John Newton Brown, 1821