On being brought from Africa to America.
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TWAS mercy brought me from my Pagan land,Taught my benighted soul to understandThat there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:Once I redemption neither sought nor knew,Some view our sable race with scornful eye,"Their colour is a diabolic die."Remember, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,May be refin'd, and join th' angelic train. On the Death of the Rev. Dr. SEWELL, 1769. ERE yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,See Sewell number'd with the happy dead.Hail, holy man, arriv'd th' immortal shore,Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.Come, let us all behold with wishful eyesThe saint ascending to his native skies;From hence the prophet wing'd his rapt'rous wayTo the blest mansions in eternal day.Then begging for the Spirit of our God,And panting eager for the same abode,Come, let us all with the same vigour rise,And take a prospect of the blissful skies;While on our minds Christ's image is imprest,And the dear Saviour glows in ev'ry breast.Thrice happy saint! to find thy heav'n at last,What compensation for the evils past!Great God, incomprehensible, unknownBy sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,And give us of that mercy to partake,Which thou hast promis'd for the Saviour's sake!"Sewell is dead." Swift-pinion'd Fame thus cry'd."Is Sewell dead," my trembling tongue reply'd,O what a blessing in his flight deny'd!How oft for us the holy prophet pray'd!How oft to us the Word of Life convey'd!By duty urg'd my mournful verse to close,I for his tomb this epitaph compose."Lo, here a man, redeem'd by Jesus's blood,"A sinner once, but now a saint with God;"Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,"Not let his monument your heart surprise;"Twill tell you what this holy man has done,"Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun."Listen, ye happy, from your seats above."I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,"He sought the paths of piety and truth,"By these made happy from his early youth;"In blooming years that grace divine he felt,"Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt."Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,"And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;"Ev'n Christ, the bread descending from above,"And ask an int'rest in his saving love."Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told"God's gracious wonders from the times of old."I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,"For he my monitor will not return."O when shall we to his blest state arrive?"When the same graces in our bosoms thrive." On the Death of the Rev. Mr. GEORGE WHITEFIELD. 1770. HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;We hear no more the music of thy tongue,Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.Thy sermons in unequall'd accents flow'd,And ev'ry bosom with devotion glow'd;Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin'dInflame the heart, and captivate the mind.Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.Behold the prophet in his tow'ring flight!He leaves the earth for heav'n's unmeasur'd height,And worlds unknown receive him from our sight.There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.Thy pray'rs, great saint, and thine incessant criesHave pierc'd the bosom of thy native skies.Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,How he has wrestled with his God by night.He pray'd that grace in ev'ry heart might dwell,He long'd to see America excell;He charg'd its youth that ev'ry grace divineShould with full lustre in their conduct shine;That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,The greatest gift that ev'n a God can give,He freely offer'd to the num'rous throng,That on his lips with list'ning pleasure hung."Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,"Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;"Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,"Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;"Take him my dear Americans, he said,"Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid:"Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,"Impartial Saviour is his title due:"Wash'd in the fountain of redeeming blood,"You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God."Great Countess,* we Americans revereThy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,Their more than father will no more return.But, though arrested by the hand of death,Whitefield no more exerts his lab'ring breath,Yet let us view him in th' eternal skies,Let ev'ry heart to this bright vision rise;While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,Till life divine re-animates his dust. *The Countess of Huntingdon, to whom Mr. Whitefield was Chaplain. On the Death of a young Lady of Five Years of Age. FROM dark abodes to fair etherial lightTh' enraptur'd innocent has wing'd her flight;On the kind bosom of eternal loveShe finds unknown beatitude above.This known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore,She feels the iron hand of pain no more;The dispensations of unerring grace,Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;Let then no tears for her henceforward flow,No more distress'd in our dark vale below,Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;But hear in heav'n's blest bow'rs your Nancy fair,And learn to imitate her language there."Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown'd,"By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound"Wilt thou be prais'd? Seraphic pow'rs are faint"Infinite love and majesty to paint."To thee let all their graceful voices raise,"And saints and angels join their songs of praise."Perfect in bliss she from her heav'nly homeLooks down, and smiling beckons you to come;Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans?Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,Why would you wish your daughter back again?No--bow resign'd. Let hope your grief control,And check the rising tumult of the soul.Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day,Adore the God who gives and takes away;Eye him in all, his holy name revere,Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere,Till having sail'd through life's tempestuous sea,And from its rocks, and boist'rous billows free,Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore,Shall join your happy babe to part no more.
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