| |
| HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne, | |
| Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown; | |
| We hear no more the music of thy tongue, | |
| Thy wonted auditories cease to throng. | |
| Thy sermons in unequall’d accents flow’d, | 5 |
| And ev’ry bosom with devotion glow’d; | |
| Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin’d | |
| Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind. | |
| Unhappy we the setting sun deplore, | |
| So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more. | 10 |
| |
| Behold the prophet in his tow’ring flight! | |
| He leaves the earth for heav’n’s unmeasur’d height, | |
| And worlds unknown receive him from our sight. | |
| There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way, | |
| And sails to Zion through vast seas of day. | 15 |
| Thy pray’rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries | |
| Have pierc’d the bosom of thy native skies. | |
| Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light, | |
| How he has wrestled with his God by night. | |
| He pray’d that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell, | 20 |
| He long’d to see America excel; | |
| He charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine | |
| Should with full lustre in their conduct shine; | |
| That Saviour, which his soul did first receive, | |
| The greatest gift that ev’n a God can give, | 25 |
| He freely offer’d to the num’rous throng, | |
| That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung. | |
| |
| “Take him, ye wretched, for your only good, | |
| Take him ye starving sinners, for your food; | |
| Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream, | 30 |
| Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme; | |
| Take him my dear Americans, he said, | |
| Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid: | |
| Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you, | |
| “Impartial Saviour is his title due: | 35 |
| Wash’d in the fountain of redeeming blood, | |
| You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.” | |
| |
| Great Countess, 1 we Americans revere | |
| Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere; | |
| New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn, | 40 |
| Their more than father will no more return. | |
| |
| But, though arrested by the hand of death, | |
| Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath, | |
| Yet let us view him in th’ eternal skies, | |
| Let ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise; | 45 |
| While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust, | |
| Till life divine re-animates his dust. | |
