The White Pilgrim

I came to the spot where

The white pil­grim lay

And pen­sive­ly stood by the tomb;

When in a low whis­per

I heard some­thing say:

“How sweet­ly I sleep here alone.

“The tem­pest may howl

and

The wild thun­ders roll

And ga­ther­ing storms may arise;

Yet calm are my feel­ings

At peace is my soul

The tears are all wiped from my eyes.

“Go tell all the friends that

To me were so dear

To weep not for one that is gone.

The hand that once led me

Through scenes dark and drear

Has sweetly con­duct­ed me home.

“The cause of my mas­ter

Propelled me from home

I bade my com­pan­ion fare­well;

I left my sweet child­ren

Who for me now mourn

In far dist­ant re­gions to dwell.

“I wan­dered an ex­ile

And strang­er be­low

To pub­lish sal­va­tion abroad

The trump of the Gos­pel

Endeavored to blow

Inviting poor sin­ners to God.

But when among strang­ers

And far from my home

No kin­dred or re­la­tive nigh

I met the con­tag­ion

And sunk in the tomb

My spir­it to man­sions on high.

HIS WIDOW

I called at the house of

The mourn­er be­low

I en­tered the man­sion of grief;

The tears of deep sor­row

Most free­ly did flow—

I tried

but could give no re­lief.

There sat a lone wi­dow

Dejected and sad

By trou­bles and sor­row op­pressed;

And here were the child­ren

In mourn­ing ar­rayed

And sighs were es­cap­ing each breast.

I spoke to the wi­dow

Concerning her grief

I asked her the cause of her woe;

And why there was no­thing

To give her re­lief

Or soothe her deep sor­row be­low.

She looked at her child­ren

Then looked up­on me

That look I can nev­er forget

More elo­quent far than

A ser­aph can be

It spoke of the tri­als she met.

“The hand of af­flict­ion

Falls heav­ily now;

I’m left with my child­ren to mourn;

The friend of my youth now

Lies si­lent and low

In yon­der cold grave­yard alone!

“But why should I mourn

or

Feel bound to com­plain

Or think that my for­tune is hard?

I met with af­flict­ion—

’Tis tru­ly his gain—

He’s en­tered the joy of his Lord!

His work is com­plet­ed

And fin­ished be­low;

His last tear is fall­en

I trust;

He preached his last ser­mon

And met his last foe;

Has con­quered

and now is at rest!