on the death of the rev. dr. kirkland.
211
The depths of memory are stirred; her eagle flight she takes:
Thoughts of my childhood's vanished years this solemn hour awakes.
I hear again the notes of prayer, my head in reverence bow,
And feel once more that hand in love pressed gently on my brow.
Thoughts of my childhood's vanished years this solemn hour awakes.
I hear again the notes of prayer, my head in reverence bow,
And feel once more that hand in love pressed gently on my brow.
O! if in that most sacred hour the seal of God was given,
To be my passport when I reach the shining gates of heaven,
How should I turn me in my joy, his honored name to bless,
Whose hand unto my soul revealed such perfect happiness!
To be my passport when I reach the shining gates of heaven,
How should I turn me in my joy, his honored name to bless,
Whose hand unto my soul revealed such perfect happiness!
Now that the pleasant smile is gone, and hushed the gentle voice,
Whose accents had such magic power the sorrowing to rejoice,
His virtues,—let them ever beam with undecaying ray,
To shed their fragrance and their bloom around our future way.
Whose accents had such magic power the sorrowing to rejoice,
His virtues,—let them ever beam with undecaying ray,
To shed their fragrance and their bloom around our future way.
Rest thee, thou faithful patriarch! rest! with kindly heart and true,
Thy hand performed the holy work appointed thee to do:
And now the fulness of His love, whose servant thou hast been,
Beams all unclouded on thine eye, in majesty serene.
Thy hand performed the holy work appointed thee to do:
And now the fulness of His love, whose servant thou hast been,
Beams all unclouded on thine eye, in majesty serene.
