To me it was a
season of especial profit; angels seemed hovering around."
REFLECTIONS.
Returning seasons bid reflection wake,
And o'er the past a winding passage take:
Ah! what a scene of change arrests the mind,
Within the compass of five months behind!
In many a home is hushed the voice of mirth,
And sorrow, as a flood, o'erflows the earth.
Here one, by sad misfortune followed fast,
In hopeless indigence is plunged at last.
Another, by disaster thrown aside,
Has got a crippled limb to prop his side.
There, death has made a breach, and left forlorn
The widowed mother, and the babe unborn.
Here, weeps the father o'er his orphan child,
Who thinks it strange, for formerly he smiled:
Oh! who can tell the sorrows of his breast?
'Tis sad experience must reveal the rest.
A few days since, a mournful crowd appeared,
In sable garb, and to the church repaired;
Ask you the reason of their measured pace,
Why silent all, and tears on every face.
Alas! the Pastor's dead, who, fifty years,
The Gospel tidings sounded in their ears:--
A man of God, endued with purpose strong,
Who lived the truth he taught, and hated wrong,
Full thirty years, the schools enjoyed his care;
The sick, the poor, the Missions claimed a share.
But now, we hear his friendly voice no more;
His course is finished, and the fight is o'er.
Come, hear the accents of his flying lips,
"My pleasures are to come;"--the curtain slips,
And hides what follows from our curious eyes:
Enough! he joins the chorus of the skies.
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