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THE MEMORY OF THE REV. DR WAUGH.

WHOE'ER thou art whose eye may hither bend,
If thou art human, here behold a friend.
Art thou of Christ's disciples? He was one
Like him whose bosom Jesus leant upon.
Art thou a sinner burthened with thy grief?
His life was spent proclaiming sin's relief.
Art thou an unbeliever? He could feel
Much for the patient whom he could not heal.
Whate'er thy station, creed, condition be,
This man of God has cared and prayed for thee.

Do riches, honours, pleasures, smile around?
He would have shown thee where alone is found
Their true enjoyment-on the Christian plan
Of holiness to God and love to man.

Are poverty, disease, disgrace, despair,
The ills, the anguish to which flesh is heir,

Thy household inmates? Yea, even such as thee
He hailed as brothers of humanity;

And gave his hand and heart, and toiled and pled,
Till nakedness was clothed and hunger fed;
Till pain was soothed, and even the fiend Despair
Confessed a stronger arm than his was there.

And ye far habitants of heathen lands,

For you he raised his voice and stretched his hands ;
And taught new-wakened sympathy to start
With generous throb through many a British heart;
Till wide o'er farthest oceans waved the sail
That bade in Jesus' name the nations hail,
And Afric's wastes and wildered Hindostan
Heard the glad tidings of "good will to man."

Such was his public ministry. And they
Through life who loved him till his latest day,
Of many a noble, gentle trait can tell,

That as a man, friend, father, marked him well :
The frank simplicity; the cordial flow
Of kind affections; the enthusiast glow
That love of Nature or his Native Land
Would kindle in those eyes so bright and bland;
The unstudied eloquence, that from his tongue
Fell like the fresh dews by the breezes flung
From fragrant woodlands; the benignant look
That like a rainbow beamed through his rebuke—
Rebuke more dreaded than a despot's frown,
For sorrow more than anger called it down;
The winning way, the kindliness of speech,
With which he wont the little ones to teach,

As round his chair like clustering doves they clung-
For, like his Master, much he loved the young.

These, and unnumbered traits like these, my verse Could fondly dwell upon; but o'er his hearse

A passing wreath I may but stop to cast,

Of love and grateful reverence the last
Poor earthly token. Weeping mourners here
Perchance may count such frail memorial dear,
Though vain and valueless it be to him

Who tunes his golden harp amidst the seraphim!

1827.

T. P.

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