Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

ON THE DEATH OF DR. ADAM CLARKE

KNOW ye a prince hath fallen? They who sit On gilded throne, with rubied diadem, Caparisoned and guarded round, till death Doth stretch them 'neath some gorgeous canopy, Yet leave no foot-prints in the realm of mind— Call them not kings—they are but crowned men. Know ye a prince hath fallen? Nature gave The signet of her royalty, and years Of mighty labor won that sceptred power Of knowledge, which from unborn ages claims Homage and empire, such as time's keen tooth May never waste. Yea—and the grace of God So witnessed with his spirit, so impelled To deeds of Christian love, that there is reared A monument for him, which hath no dread Of that fierce flame which wrecks the solid earth. I see him 'mid the Shetlands, spreading Forth The riches of the Gospel—kneeling down To light its lamp in every, darkened hut:—

Not in the armor of proud learning braced,But with a towel girded—as to wash The feet of those whom earthly princes scorn. I see him lead the rugged islander Even as a brother, to the Lamb of God,Counting his untaught soul more precious far Than all the lore of all the 'lettered World. I hear his eloquence—but deeper still,And far more eloquent, there comes a dirge O'er the hoarse wave. "All that we boast of man,Is as the flower of grass."Farewell—Farewell! Pass on with Wesley, and with all the great And good of every nation. Yea!—pass on Where the cold name of sect, which sometimes throws Unholy shadow o'er the heaven-warmed breast, Doth melt to nothingness—and every surge Of warring doctrine, in whose eddying depths, Earth's charity was drowned, is sweetly lost In the broad ocean of eternal love.