ON THE DEATH OF MR. W. WIGHTMAN, MY EARLIEST AND MOST VALUED FRIEND. BY W. M. HETHERINGTON, A. M. Author of "Scottish Pastorals." AND can it be? Art thou too gone? O'er that warm heart shall roll! Oh! how my very heart-strings yearn To realise the golden dream, As Memory from her mystic urn Pours forth of Time reversed the stream! Oh! to renew the blissful days, When my rapt eye would on him gaze, Till from his bright soul's lustrous blaze Even now his voice so calm, so clear, So truly echoing from the heart, Seems melting on my dreaming ear, Oh! might that dream no more depart! In mind the Man, in heart the Child, 'Tis past, and vainly I deplore! Shall I behold him, hear him, feel If this were so, well might I weep, Well might my heart with anguish bleed ! If Death were an eternal sleep, Then Death were terrible indeed! If the dear forms we loved so well In blank oblivion's dreary cell Were doomed for evermore to dwell, How cheerless were our meed! But, Oh! bless'd truth! Death's fellest blow, Can only slay guilt, pain, and fear! Why shrink we then in doubt and woe, Earth's prisoners wait thee here! Thy fate I mourn not, dearest, best, And first of friends! my own I mourn: Thine, now, is heaven's untroubled rest, While here I linger, sad, and lorn! Thou, whose high worth my soul rever'd, Whose counsel wise my doubtings clear'd Whose soothing words my dark hour cheer'd, Thou'rt from my bosom torn! If pure affection cannot die, O! Sainted Spirit of my friend! From thine abode of bliss on high To me in sweet communion bend! Meet me with day's departing beams, While lone I stray by rushing streams, Or come to me amid my dreams, And with my spirit blend! Yes, yes! thou wilt! and when I feel A calm unwonted blandly steal, Soothing their wild turmoil to rest, My soul in pleasing, rapturous pain, And join, with thee, the blest! Then let me check the farewell sigh,- Why weep a soul's release from dust? Sleep, then! thou dear departed Friend! Sleep, till Fate's storms be all o'erblown! Sleep, till Time's jarrings shall have end, Evil be smitten from his throne! Soon low as thine my home shall be! Oh! may I rise in bliss with thee, When Christ in heavenly majesty Shall come to claim his own! ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE IV. BY THE REV. JOHN BROWN PATTERSON, A. M. "I have said, Ye are gods; but ye shall die like men."Psalm Ixxxii. 6, 7. 66 So spake the Lord of old by his word to the princes of Israel: so speaketh he in all generations by his providence to the princes of every people. I have said, Ye are gods;" ye are exalted to such sovereign dignity and sovereign power, in the administration of God's ordinance of government committed to your hands, as renders your state, in some |