THUS are DEATH's mortal weapons hurl'd, Resistless on a prostrate world;

The young, the old, the grave, the gay,

His potent summons all obey.

But can no remedy be found

To sooth the rancour of his wound?
IS GILEAD of her Balm bereft,
And frail Creation hopeless left?
Say, will no white-rob'd Son of Light,
Swift darting from his Heavenly height,
Here deign to take his hallow'd stand,
And shed Salvation round the Land?
Mortals, the aid you wish is near,
No light-clad angel need appear,
Prophetic voice, and Gospel Grace,
May well supply an Angel's place;
Yes, Gospel Truth's unerring sound,
Has long been heard the world around;
And He, who will not these attend,

Should dead men rise, or Saints descend;

Would still, in unbelieving mood,
Refuse the bliss by which he's woo'd;
Would not attend though rocks should speak,
Or voice from bursting mountains break.
'Twas the great Messenger from Heaven,
By whom the sacred word was given,
The Son of God's eternal Love
Descended from the Heaven above,
To arm frail man for combat high,
Against his last Great Enemy;
To guard him in the awful strife,
And point the way through death to life.
Himself the arduous conflict tried,
And rose triumphant though he died.

His faithful followers here behold
Amidst Death's Terrors calmly bold:
A Prelate full of Heavenly Grace,
High rais'd in virtue as in place;
One who God's people ne'er betray'd,
Nor practis❜d other than he said.
His early age to learning given,

Prepar'd him for the task of Heaven:

Science, thy thorny paths he trod,

Through Nature's works, to Nature's God;

Till now intent on Heavenly good,

The Spirit caught him where it would,
And tipt his tongue with Coal of
Fire,

And bade the hallow'd flame aspire.
The Holy word, by day, by night,
At once his study and delight;

Anxious he weighs each verse each line,
And human learning aids divine;
But not alone to study given,

He shews, and leads the path to Heaven.
Still, instant by the sick man's bed,

He cheers his heart and lifts his head :
His counsels tott'ring virtue stay,
At his rebuke vice shrinks away.

Such, such of old good Pastors were,
Such Cranmer-Wilson-Latimer.

All humbler duties duly paid,

At last, the Mitre decks his head;
Still modest in his high degree,

Still grac'd with meek humility.
Another glory yet remains,

And that by death the good man

gains;

An heavenly crown, bright heritage,

Amid the Saints of ev'ry Age.

What more can Heaven on man bestow,

Or man deserve of God below?

Now call'd to that, devoid of fear,

He sees the close of Life is near;
Religion beaming in his heart,

He heeds not DEATH'S impending dart:
His faithful friend directs the way
To regions of eternal day.

Where then thy sting, dread tyrant, where
The triumph to thy Pride so dear,
Harmless thy boasted dart is found:-
'Tis Sin gives venom to the wound.
-The body, given him at his birth,
Must mingle with its native earth.
'Gainst that alone DEATH'S darts prevail,
Against th' immortal parts they fail:
The fragil frame sinks to the tomb,
There rests amid sepulchral gloom;
From thence, more glorious to arise,
And join its partner in the skies;
No longer pain or care to know,
Or changes that man feels below;
But change of Bliss and Pleasure pure,
And Peace that ever shall endure.
—As he whose form the fiend sustain'd,

When Eve's too easy faith he gain'd;