To The Memory Of Thomas Shipley

Gone to thy Heavenly Father's rest!     The flowers of Eden round thee blowing,     And on thine ear the murmurs blest     Of Siloa's waters softly flowing!     Beneath that Tree of Life which gives     To all the earth its healing leaves     In the white robe of angels clad,     And wandering by that sacred river,     Whose streams of holiness make glad     The city of our God forever!     Gentlest of spirits! not for thee     Our tears are shed, our sighs are given;     Why mourn to know thou art a free     Partaker of the joys of heaven?     Finished thy work, and kept thy faith     In Christian firmness unto death;     And beautiful as sky and earth,     When autumn's sun is downward going,     The blessed memory of thy worth     Around thy place of slumber glowing!     But woe for us! who linger still     With feebler strength and hearts less lowly,     And minds less steadfast to the will     Of Him whose every work is holy.     For not like thine, is crucified     The spirit of our human pride:     And at the bondman's tale of woe,     And for the outcast and forsaken,     Not warm like thine, but cold and slow,     Our weaker sympathies awaken.     Darkly upon our struggling way     The storm of human hate is sweeping;     Hunted and branded, and a prey,     Our watch amidst the darkness keeping,     Oh, for that hidden strength which can     Nerve unto death the inner man!     Oh, for thy spirit, tried and true,     And constant in the hour of trial,     Prepared to suffer, or to do,     In meekness and in self-denial.     Oh, for that spirit, meek and mild,     Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining;     By man deserted and reviled,     Yet faithful to its trust remaining.     Still prompt and resolute to save     From scourge and chain the hunted slave;     Unwavering in the Truth's defence,     Even where the fires of Hate were burning,     The unquailing eye of innocence     Alone upon the oppressor turning!     O loved of thousands! to thy grave,     Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee.     The poor man and the rescued slave     Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee;     And grateful tears, like summer rain,     Quickened its dying grass again!     And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine,     Shall come the outcast and the lowly,     Of gentle deeds and words of thine     Recalling memories sweet and holy!     Oh, for the death the righteous die!     An end, like autumn's day declining,     On human hearts, as on the sky,     With holier, tenderer beauty shining;     As to the parting soul were given     The radiance of an opening heaven!     As if that pure and blessed light,     From off the Eternal altar flowing,     Were bathing, in its upward flight,     The spirit to its worship going!