Yea, at the hour when nature faints
In its last mortal agony,

Strong in the Refuge of the saints,
I'll look to thee, I'll look to thee.

A PORTRAIT.*

HE ministers where busy men
Do cluster in the mart of PENN.

Its northern suburbs well have known
The light that twenty years hath shone
In many an alley, lane and street

Of those thronged Liberties, where meet
The careless, moral and profane.

In many a house his ready feet

Have visited, a soul to gain,

Whom he hath warned, and not in vain.

Wouldst note him? Seek yon dome of prayer,
His 'customed place-behold him there.
He stands, with form that toil hath bowed,

In meekness to delight that crowd.
His furrowed cheek and thin grey hair
Would tell of age, did not that eye
Of kindling spark, the thought deny ;-

* Written while its original, Rev. James Patterson, of Philadelphia, was in the midst of his days and usefulness, and six weeks prior to his sudden and lamented death.

Would tell of weakness, did not lips
Of burning eloquence, and heart
That into Heaven's mystery dips,
Instruction, awe and peace impart.

With Saxon strength of language, he
Pours thoughts that rise in giant strength;
With quaint, appropriate imagery,

Convincing in simplicity,

He shows his subject's breadth and length. The weapon doth he strongly draw, Bright, keen and tempered, of the law; And while fools cavil that its edge

Wears not a nice and useless shine,

It severs like a mighty wedge

The gnarled tough heart with power divine.

Dost ask for fruit?

'Tis ample

some

Is gathered up to bless him here; And from earth's confines men shall come, His crown, when lost are star and sphere. "That Day of wrath, that dreadful Day When heaven and earth will pass away". As swells abroad the last trump's sound, Let me be found where he is found! As sinks beneath my foot the land, Let me but stand where he doth stand.

Who shall be greatest deemed of all

That sit in white on thrones above?

Not him for gifts esteemed, like Paul,

But who like Paul hath toiled in love.

Earth's great ones, while abashed they wear
In heaven, a rayless diadem,

Shall see such high in glory there,

Spangled and starred with many a gem.

October, 1837.

IN MEMORY OF THE PRECEDING.

THERE are others who fall on the fields of their fame,`
The warriors of Christ, that on earth have a name,
And a place in the glorious records on high,
Who live in applause and in triumph who die,
And sleep where their tablets to passengers tell
How bravely they battled, how nobly they fell —
Yet none stir the depths of such feeling in me,
As rise, holy man! when I think upon thee.

There are scribes, well instructed, that rightly divide
The word, and choice leaders to teach and to guide;
There are those in the service, like cedars, how tall!
And strong for the Lord, like the veteran Paul;
With lips whence the music persuasively flows,
Of a mind that with fervor and eloquence glows,—
And yet who would buy their renown with one tear
That comes from the heart of the lowliest here?

I cannot forget, when but few or none cared
For a soul in the web of sin's artifice snared,

How kindly thou laboredst to free me—and now,
Though a robe's on thy form and a light on thy brow,
And glory, where yesterday lingered decay,

And wings plumed around thee that bear thee away
From sickness and sorrow I cannot but sigh
One needed to live should so speedily die.

I knew thee to love thee; but long ere I knew
Thy faithfulness, goodness and fellowship true,
Thou didst follow my step while a stranger to both
Thy God and thyself, and to holiness loath, —
And watched me and warned me, and showed me the
way
Whence youth, just as heedless, unguardedly stray –
Nor paused thou, till peace, driven far by the rod,
I sought as one earnest, and found it in God.

There are hearts, perhaps hundreds, where thou wast enshrined,

That will bleed at this blow,- to the Giver resigned,— There are thousands whom thou to the Shepherd hast led,

And comforted, chidden, wept over and fed;

And some, thy first fruits, have their toils ended first,

And some, in bereavement, have bowed o'er thy dust, And a flock thou hast blest, and by whom thou wert blest,

A widow - the fatherless-tears tell the rest.

We muse on this trial, stern, grievous and strange, And ask, while despondingly viewing the change

Made where the death-angel has swept his wide

wing

Art angry, oh, Father? or why is this thing?
We plead in our trouble, wilt Thou, too, depart!
The righteous man dies and none lay it to heart:
Yet answer is given-" Away to his home
I've taken him, only from evil to come."

From evil to come! - if the strength of thy host
Is broke, shall thy cause not be counted as lost?
Yet no! when the faithful is called from the field,
We'll hear but thy voice, "Cease from man as your
shield!"

And learning from him,- who his sword has laid down

To take a new harp and receive a glad crown,— We'll watch for souls wandering, and win them above, And spend and be spent, like thy servant, in love.

I heard, uttered John, and a voice spake from heaven,
Blessed hence are the dead unto whom it is given
To die in the Lord! Oh, the light is not dim,
That beams in such blessedness now upon him,
Who for trials through which he has sorrowing
past,

Has honor and glory and beauty at last;

And for draughts drank in bitterness only, below, The streams that from fountains of happiness flow. November 25, 1837.