Poems (Toke)/E. J.

by Emma Toke

E. J.

HOU art gone at last to thy peaceful rest,
 In the noon of life thou hast met thy doom,
And the fire which glowed in thy saintly breast,
 Is quenched in the night of the lonely tomb.

Thou art gone; but thou canst not soon depart
 From the breasts of those who have loved thee here;
They will cherish thee deep in their inmost heart,
 And shed for thee memory's fondest tear.

For thine was a lofty and noble mind,
 That soared far, far o'er the things of earth,
Each feeling chastened, each thought refined,
 And pure as the heart which gave them birth.

And oh! who can forget the kindly glow,
 The warmth of affection which filled that heart;
The love that extended to all below,
 Yet centred on Him whose servant thou wert.

For thine was that gentle and lovely mind,
 That could feel for others in joy or woe;
That longed in each bosom some grace to find,
 Yet could weep o'er the faults of the bitterest foe.

And thou wert a pastor in deed and word,
 Simple, devoted, fearless, and free;
All thine energies bent to serve thy Lord,
 And live unto Him who had died for thee.

And thine every thought an unearthly power,
 An impress of holiness, seemed to bear;—
Oh! none could behold thee for one short hour,
 Nor feel that a man of God was there.

But thy mind was cast in a giant mould,
 And it soared—perchance with too wild a flight;
Then foes gathered round thee, friends grew cold,
 And the star of thy brightness was quenched in night.

And calumny winged her most venomed dart,
 Till those forsook who mourn for thee now;
Jut though dauntless and firm was that noble heart,
 Yet they broke the spirit they could not bow.

Yes; days of sorrow and hours of gloom
 Soon traced with furrows that lordly brow;
And the locks once dark as the raven's plume
 Were more than tinged with untimely snow.

Jut now it is over, thy race is run,
 In thine own loved land thou hast sunk to rest:
Thy work is finished—thy warfare done,—
 And thou art in peace on thy Saviour's breast.

Thou hast lived the life of a saint on earth;
 Thou hast died the death of the true and brave:
Let memory cherish thy matchless worth,
 And enmity sleep in thine early grave.

Farewell! thou hast left a world of woe,
 Thou art far from the reach of sin and care;
Thy much-loved Lord is thy portion now,—
 Oh, who would not pray such lot to share?

E.

January, 1835.