Mercy Otis Warren (
1728-
1814)
Let deep dejection hide her pallid face,
And from thy breast each painful image rase;
Forbid thy lip to utter one complaint,
But view the glories of the rising
saint,
Ripe for a crown, and waiting the reward
Of watching long the
vineyard of the
Lord.
The generous purpose of his zealous
heart,
Truth to enforce, and knowledge to impart,
Insures his welcome on the unknown shore,
Where
choirs of saints and
angel forms adore.
A
seraph met him on the trackless way,
And strung his
harp to join the heavenly lay.
Complain no more of
Death's extensive power,
Whose sceptre wafts us to some blissful shore;
Where the rough billows that roll o'er the head,
That shake the frame, and fill the mind with dread,
Are hush'd in silence, and the soul serene
Looks back delighted on the closing scene.
Happy, thrice happy, that exalted mind,
Who, leaving
earth and all its cares behind,
Has not a wish to ruffle or control
The equal temper of his tranquil
soul,
Who, on a retrospect, is safe within;
No private passion, nor a darling
sin,
Can check his
hope, when death's insatiate pow'r
Stands hovering on the last decisive hour.
Then weep no more, my friend, but all resigned,
Submit thy will to the
Eternal Mind,
Who watches o'er the movements of the just,
And will again reanimate the dust!
Thy sire commands, suppress the rising sigh,
He wipes the tear from thy too filial eye,
And bids thee contemplate a soul set free,
Just safe escaped from
life's tempestuous sea.