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The Pamphlet Collection of Sir Robert Stout: Volume 72

Lines on the Late Dr Stuart

Lines on the Late Dr Stuart.

[unclear: Still'd] is that voice, which, prompt at duty's call,
Invok'd a blessing on the heads of all;
Cold is that pallid brow, which once could wear
The cheery smile to chase away the tear.
His eyes are closed in Death's eternal sleep,
While mourning friends around in anguish weep.
In him, no angry passions played a part,
Bat charity and love inspired his heart.
He had no wish to war with others' creeds,
Bat judged them by his standard—by their deeds.
If men were weak, by error led astray,
He served as guide to show the better way.
Firm as the rugged rocks of Scotia's hills,
His faith would triumph over human ills;
An ardent worker in each noble cause—
He never slackened pace, nor made a pause.
If others grew faint-hearted, looked dismayed,
His words would cheer—"Kind friends, be not afraid;
The Christian's goal, though distant, is in sight:
ut forth your strength—advance in all your might.
Be ours the task to elevate our brother,
To do what good we can for one another;
Exhaust not precious hours in wordy strife,
But win the crown of everlasting life."
Revered and loved, he was a welcomed guest
In every home where Virtue raised her crest.
If he at times would tread the rich man's floor,
He ne'er ignored the sufferings of the poor:
He knew no class—disdained all outward show,
But nursed within a sympathy for woe;
Though plain of speech, his words were soft and mild.
His manners gentle as the meekest child.
True to the hardy clime that gave him birth,
No meretricious polish graced his worth;
Majestic, pure, in feeling, thought, and tone,
A stout, brave Scotchman to the very bone;
As Burns was Nature's poet, rich and wild,
So Stuart lived her preacher, undefiled.
Yet deem not he was blind to Beauty's wiles,
For few could woo her with more winning smiles;
The woods, the glens, the heather bloom and flowers
Drew forth his praise and fed his mental powers;
And none with sweeter accents could impart
The balm of comfort to the aching heart.
The widow, mourning for her husband lost;
The helpless orphan, on Life's ocean tossed;
The wasting form, on couch of sickness laid;
The wandering outcast, and the ruined maid,
Were each in turn the objects of his cares,
That claimed his succour, solace, and his prayers.
No man approached but found in him a friend;
No woman pleaded but she gained her end.
While e'er intent to bring men to their God,
He ne'er despised the earth on which they trod.
He strove to give them pleasure in this life,
To purify their tastes, and banish strife.
Has he succeeded? Mark the tearful eye,
The heaving bosom, and the stifled sigh,
The grief that stamps on every face its seal,
Which tells how bitter are the pangs they feel.
But why thus mourn? His soul has winged its flight
To realms all radiant with celestial light;
The noble heart that throbbed at every pore
Hath ceased pulsation and shall throb no more.

Mornington.

E. S. Mantz.