ON THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE, MAY 5TH, 1821.
He falls! Napoleon Buonaparte is gone: Who conquered thousands, conquered now by one: His strength diminished, and his glory fled; His kingdom taken, and his honour dead. Though clad in warlike state,--without command; A captive buried in a foreign land: Oh! might we hope the captive now is free, Escaped from bondage into liberty.
"In private I have been greatly blessed; but, oh! the sense of ignorance I feel makes me ashamed: yet I know not that I ever felt a deeper thirst for all that God can give. Come, Lord, and diffuse Thy presence through my soul. I have been reading Bramwell's Memoir; how desirable his life! How enviable his death! Help me, Lord, to follow after, and to walk in close communion with Thee; that I may apprehend that, for which I am apprehended in Christ Jesus.--At. St Michael's Church the Rev. John Graham improved the death of the Rev. William Richardson, who for half a century has laboured in York, and been much esteemed on account of his ministerial usefulness. He gave a concise account of Mr. R.'s literary and spiritual attainments. His Christian character was excellent. His chief joy was in Christ crucified; and his constant prayer, that he might not live longer than he could be useful. His labours continued up to his last illness, which lasted only a week, and his last words were, 'My pleasures are to come.' Thus died this eminent minister of Jesus Christ, aged 76. To me it was a season of especial profit; angels seemed hovering around."
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.