To The Memory Of Mrs. Ewing.

Written After Perusing The Interesting Memoir Composed By Her Husband, The Rev. Greville Ewing.     Daughter of Scotland! may a stranger twine         One cypress wreath around thy honoured urn?--     Yet, when I meditate on faith like thine,         I feel my breast with sacred ardour burn;     Deep admiration checks the starting tear,--     Such drops would stain a Ewing's holy bier!     Death was to thee a messenger of love;         He met thee in the path thy Saviour trod,     Bearing this blessed mandate from above,         "Come, happy spirit--come away to God!     Thy works of piety on earth are o'er,--     Plume thy bright wing to reach the heavenly shore!"     Calm was thy exit from this troubled scene;         Pain from thy lips no hasty murmurs wrung;     With brow unruffled and with mind serene,         Thy Saviour's praise employed thy faltering tongue:     And though no kindling raptures marked thy flight,     Thy faith unshaken _showed that all was right_!     Those who beheld thee in the burning hour,         When fever raged in every throbbing vein,     Oft shall recount the parting struggle o'er,         The scene on memory's tablets long retain--     Each gracious word, each kindly glance, that told     The Christian's love, ere that warm heart was cold!     Thy memory is a pure and holy thing,         Embalmed and treasured in the hearts of those     Who saw thee, like an angel, ministering         The precious balm that softens human woes.     Thou didst not hide thy talent in the dust;     Anxious that all should own the same high trust.--     Deeply concerned that other realms should share         Those blessed promises so dear to thee,--     That messengers of mercy should declare         Glad tidings far beyond thy native sea;--     Thy bounteous spirit compassed land and wave     To send redemption to the soil-bound slave!     But not to foreign realms and climes alone         Didst thou confine a Christian's sacred zeal;     With all a mother's fondness for thine own,         The deep devotion faith alone could feel,     'Twas thine the drooping penitent to cheer,     And wipe from sorrow's eyes the gushing tear!     And like the faithful saints and priests of old,         Thou with thy honoured partner didst go forth,     Exploring barren heath and mountain hold,         Far through the isles and highlands of the north,     To teach the Gospel in each rocky glen,     And bless with Scripture truths unlearned men!     Thy zeal was felt along the rugged wild,         Heard round the hearth where pious maidens meet;     And matrons oft shall tell the rosy child,         Twining its wilding garlands at their feet,     To bless her name--who, conquering selfish pride,     Sought them on foot to tell how Jesus died!     Daughter of Scotland! when her bards shall trace         The noble deeds of thy illustrious line,     Thy sainted name a fairer page shall grace,         A brighter wreath for thee the minstrel twine     Than ever crowned thy warlike sires of yore,     Than history ever gave or genius wore!