Not the renown'd on earth, the rich, the great, The eloquent, the gifted. These await,

If saved, the general heaven. But from the dust How sweetly smells the memory of the Just!

Give not the Christian crowd that sacred name : 'Tis rare Fidelity's exalted claim.

'Tis his who Duty's path unswerving trod; In much or little, faithful to his God:

He whom the wretched and the poor knew best;
Whom, when the ear his footstep heard, it blest;
To whom the eye, with age or sorrow dim,

Gave witness, and whose works shall follow him :
Who silently his Saviour's steps pursued ;
Whose creed was love, whose life was gratitude.

Quietly active, calmly ardent, kind,

Yet firm of purpose, resolute of mind;
Unchill'd by age, cheerful in loneliest hours
Of widow'd solitude; with failing powers,

Still happy, happier as he near'd the goal,
And the receding world forsook his soul;

Yet patient to the last ;-so lived, so died,

One whom the world ne'er heard of in its pride. But 'tis a spectacle that angels love.

Those holy ones who bear the saint above,

Who watch his steps, and wait upon his prayer,

See in this fallen world no sight more fair,

Than such a Christian hoary-ripe for bliss,

Than the calm sunset of a life like this.

THE END.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.