| |
| ERE yet the morn its lovely blushes spread, | |
| See Sewell number’d with the happy dead. | |
| Hail, holy man, arriv’d th’ immortal shore, | |
| Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more. | |
| Come, let us all behold with wishful eyes | 5 |
| The saint ascending to his native skies; | |
| From hence the prophet wing’d his rapt’rous way | |
| To the blest mansions in eternal day. | |
| Then begging for the Spirit of our God, | |
| And panting eager for the same abode, | 10 |
| Come, let us all with the same vigour rise, | |
| And take a prospect of the blissful skies; | |
| While on our minds Christ’s image is imprest, | |
| And the dear Saviour glows in ev’ry breast. | |
| Thrice happy faint! to find thy heav’n at last, | 15 |
| What compensation for the evils past! | |
| |
| Great God, incomprehensible, unknown | |
| By sense, we bow at thine exalted throne. | |
| O, while we beg thine excellence to feel, | |
| Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal, | 20 |
| And give us of that mercy to partake, | |
| Which thou hast promis’d for the Saviour’s sake! | |
| |
| “Sewell is dead.” Swift-pinion’d Fame thus cry’d. | |
| “Is Sewell dead,” my trembling tongue reply’d, | |
| O what a blessing in his flight deny’d! | 25 |
| How oft for us the holy prophet pray’d! | |
| How oft to us the Word of Life convey’d! | |
| By duty urg’d my mournful verse to close, | |
| I for his tomb this epitaph compose. | |
| |
| “Lo, here a man, redeem’d by Jesus’ blood, | 30 |
| A sinner once, but now a saint with God; | |
| Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise, | |
| Not let his monument your heart surprize; | |
| ’Twill tell you what this holy man has done, | |
| Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun. | 35 |
| Listen, ye happy, from your seats above. | |
| I speak sincerely, while I speak and love, | |
| He sought the paths of piety and truth, | |
| By these made happy from his early youth! | |
| In blooming years that grace divine he felt, | 40 |
| Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt. | |
| Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed, | |
| And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread; | |
| Ev’n Christ, the bread descending from above, | |
| And ask an int’rest in his saving love. | 45 |
| Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told | |
| God’s gracious wonders from the times of old. | |
| I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn, | |
| For he my monitor will not return. | |
| O when shall we to his blest state arrive? | 50 |
| When the same graces in our bosoms thrive.” | |
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