DEATH OF THE REV. W. C. WALTON.
So, from the field of labor, thou art gone
To thy reward,—like him who putteth off
His outer garment, at the noon-tide hour,
To take a quiet sleep. Thy zeal hath run
Its course untiring, and thy quicken'd love
Where'er thy Master pointed, joy'd to go.
—Amid thy faithful toil, his summons came,
Warning thee home,—and thou didst loose thy heart
From thy fond flock, and from affection's bonds,
And from thy blessed children's warm embrace,
With smiles, and songs of praise.
Death smote thee sore.
And plung'd his keen shaft in the quivering nerve,
Making the breath that stirr'd life's broken valve,
A torturing gasp, but with thy martyrdom,
Were smiles, and songs of praise.
And thou didst rise
Above the pealing of these Sabbath bells
Up to that glorious and unspotted Church,
Whose worship is eternal.
Would that all
Who love our Lord, might with thy welcome look
On the last foe, not as a spoiler sent
To wreck their treasures, and to blast their joys,
But as a friend, who wraps the weary clay
With earth, its mother, and doth raise the soul
To that blest consummation, which its prayers
Unceasingly besought, tho' its blest hopes
But faintly shadow'd forth,
