On The Death Of Mrs. L. J. by John Newton Brown (1818)

'Tis well ! Her mortal part is gone
	From earth to join its kindred clay;
And now hy weeping friends is borne,
	On yon slow-moving hearse, away.

What though the dust returns to dust,
	Ashes to ashes turn again!
The immortal spirit of the just
	Is freed from sorrow, sin, and pain.

Her Savior called her from the earth;
	To his dear arms her spirit flies;
How welcome was the stroke of death!
	How peacefully the Christian dies!

Now in a far more happy clime,
	Her soul has found its blest abode;
And, with immortal gaze sublime.
	Beholds the glory of her God.

There, while ten thousand years roll on
	In those bright realms of peace and joy,
Her love shall rise in higher tone,
	And praise shall be her sweet employ.

Then, mourning friends, dry up your tears.
	And weep no more for her that's dead;
For, O! a few more rolling years
	Will lay us in our lowly bed.

John Newton Brown, 1818.


Two Elegies for William Tompson by Samuel Danforth (1666)

250px-1647Almanack(listen in audio)

William Tompson, anagram 1:

lo, now I am past ill.
Why wepe yea still for me, my Children dear?
What Cause have ye of sorow, grief or fear?
Lo, now all evill things are past and gone,
Terror, black Coller & strangullion;
My pains are Curd, no greif doth me anoy,
My sorrows all are turned in to joy.
No fiend of hell shall hence forth me asay,
My fears are heald, my teares are wipt away;
Gods reconciled face I now behould,
He that dispersd my darkness many fold;
In Abrams bosom now I swetely rest,
Of perfect joy & hapiness posest.

William Tompson, Anagram 2:

now I am slipt home.
Fowr years twice tould I dwelt in darkest Cell,
In Cruell bonds of melloncholy bound.
I surely thought I was in lowest hell;
Much pain & grife, but no releif, I found.
But now throw grace my weighty Chain is loosd,
God hath returnd my long Captivity;
My weary soul, that Comfort oft refusd,
This day is set at perfect liberty;
And now I dwell at home with Christ, my lord,
With robes of righteousness most richly Clad;
With rarest pleasures the highest heavens aford,
Feasted, refresh’d, beyond experienc glad.

by Samuel Danforth, 1666