STANZAS

IN MEMORY OF

THE REV. JAMES HARVEY,

OF WESTON FAVELL, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,

WHO DIED ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1758,
AGED 43 YEARS.

Composed on an occasional celebration of his virtues and talents, at that village, in 1833.

WHERE is the house for all the living found?
-Go ask the deaf, the dumb, the dead;

All answer, without voice or sound,

Each resting in his bed;

Look down and see,

Beneath thy feet,

A place for thee;

-There all the living meet.

Whence come the beauteous progeny

of spring?

-They hear a still, small voice, "Awake!"
And while the lark is on the wing,

From dust and darkness break;

Flowers of all hues

Laugh in the gale,

Sparkle with dews,

And dance o'er hill and dale.

Who leads through trackless space the stars of night?

The Power that made them guides them still; They know Him not, yet, day and night,

They do his perfect will:

Unchanged by age,

They hold on high

Their pilgrimage

Of glory round the sky.

Stars, flowers, and tombs were themes for solemn

thought

With him whose

memory we recall ;

Yet more than eye can see he sought:

His spirit look'd through all,

Keenly discern'd

The truths they teach,

Their lessons learn'd,

And gave their silence speech.

Go, meditate with him among the tombs,
And there the end of all things view;
Visit with him spring's earliest blooms,
See all things there made new;
Thence rapt aloof

In ecstasy,

Hear, from heaven's roof,

Stars preach eternity.

We call him blessed whom the LORD hath blest

And made a blessing; -long to shed

Light on the living, from his rest,

And hope around the dead:
Oh! for his lot,

Who dwells in light,

Where flowers fade not,

And stars can find no night.

ONE WARNING MORE.

WRITTEN FOR DISTRIBUTION ON A RACE COURSE, 1824.

One fervent, faithful warning more
To him who heeded none before.

THE fly around the candle wheels,
Enjoys the sport, and gaily sings,
Till nearer, nearer borne, he feels
The flame like lightning singe his wings;
Then weltering in the gulf below he lies,
And limb by limb, scorch'd miserably, dies.

From bough to bough, the wild bird hops,
Where late he caroll'd blithe and free,
But downward, downward, now he drops,
Faint, fluttering, helpless from the tree,
Where, stretch'd below, with eye of deadly ray,
The eager rattle-snake expects his prey.

Thou, child of pleasure, art the fly,
Drawn by the taper's dazzling glare;
Thou art the bird that meets an eye,

Alluring to the serpent's snare ;

Oh! stay is reason lost? is conscience dumb?

Be wise, be warn'd, escape the wrath to come.

Not swifter o'er the level course,

The racer glances to the goal,

Than thou, with blind and headlong force
Art running on— -to lose thy soul;

Then, though the world were won, how dear the cost!

Can the whole world avail a spirit lost?

Death, on his pale horse, following fast,

Gains on thy speed,

with hell behind;

Fool! all thy yesterdays are past,

To-morrow thou wilt never find;

To-day is hastening to eternity;

"This night thy soul shall be required of thee."