Soldier! rest, thy warfare is o'er ;-
The drum shall beat for thee no more;
None shall e'er rouse thee from thy bed,
Till the last trump awake the dead,
And Jesus on his glorious throne,
His faithful soldiers then shall own.
In youth I boasted, "that I shed my blood,
To serve my King, and for my country's good;"
But in my age, it was my boast to be,
"Soldier to him, who shed his blood for me."
His gloves were laid upon the bier,
The helmet and the sword;
The drooping war horse followed near,
As though he mourned his Lord.
Each soldier bore his mournful part,
And sorrow pierced him to the heart:
For 'twas a comrade young, and brave,
They slowly followed to his grave.
No more, the trumpet shall he hear,
Till, Christ, our Captain shall appear,
Who calls his soldiers to be blest,
In realms of peace, and perfect rest.
"Soldier return," He said, 66 now from thy warfare
Here rest upon thine arms, the fight of faith is done, Come from the heat of battle-now return in peace, Soldier go home discharged, rejoice, the field is won.”
And the sea shall give up the dead which were in it. Rev. xx. 13.
His body was committed to the deep,
He sleeps not here, where all his fathers sleep; This marble, but records his deathless name, Dear to his kindred, nor less dear to fame.
Bold as a Lion, gentle as a Child,
His was the Christians spirit, meek and mild.
And now to him, the great reward is given,
To sleep in Jesus-and awake in heaven.
"Britannia rules the waves!".
Oh vain, and impious boast;
Here-mark presumptuous slaves,
'Tis God-who sinks, or saves.
He never saw his home again,
The deep voice of the gun,
The lowering of the battle flag,
Told when his life was done.
The vessel wrecked upon the shore,
Would answer to her helm no more,
Oh! 'twas indeed an awful scene,
Which none could view with hearts serene,
But those that were prepared to die,
And who could say "our God is nigh."
No tomb, so mighty as an Ocean swell;
No winding sheet, so fearful as a wave;
To have the howling winds one's funeral knell ;
And sink in darkness to a watery grave.
Ah! this may well appal the bravest heart,
And try the courage of the holiest saint.
Who can give hope, as 'mighty,' then, 'to save,' But He, who walked upon the swelling wave?
From a child brought up on the billow,
His home was the fathomless deep :
But now the cold earth is his pillow,
And sound and unbroken his sleep.
The winds and the waves cannot shake him ;
The tempest unheard shall arise,
Till the blast of the trumpet awake him,
And call him in haste to the skies.
He laboured in the fields, his bread to gain,
He plowed, he sowed, he reaped the yellow grain,
Fruitful himself in works of faith, and love,
He lives to reap the joys of Heaven above.
True, to his church he came, no sunday shower,
Kept him at home, at the appointed hour;
Nor his firm feet, could one persuading sect,
By the strong glare of their new light direct:
I feel his absence in the house of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for William there;
A wise, good man, contented to be poor;
But he is blessed, and I lament no more.
This lowly tomb records no titled fame,
It only bears, "a faithful servant's name."
'Twas stern discase his footsteps staid,
And down the woodman's axe was laid,
No more the forest feared his stroke-
He fell as falls the rugged oak;
And like that rugged oak must lie,
Till called to judgment in the sky.
This stone is erected to an aged domestic, whose memory will be long cherished with affection, by the family, she so long, and so faithfully served.
|