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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478645" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On The Death Of Rev. Mr. George Whitefield</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">HAIL, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,<br>Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;<br>We hear no more the music of thy tongue,<br>Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.<br>Thy sermons in unequall'd accents flow'd,<br>And ev'ry bosom with devotion glow'd;<br>Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin'd<br>Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.<br>Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,<br>So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.<br> Behold the prophet in his tow'ring flight!<br>He leaves the earth for heav'n's unmeasur'd height,<br>And worlds unknown receive him from our sight.<br>There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,<br>And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.<br>Thy pray'rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries<br>Have pierc'd the bosom of thy native skies.<br>Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,<br>How he has wrestled with his God by night.<br>He pray'd that grace in ev'ry heart might dwell,<br>He long'd to see America excell;<br>He charg'd its youth that ev'ry grace divine<br>Should with full lustre in their conduct shine;<br>That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,<br>The greatest gift that ev'n a God can give,<br>He freely offer'd to the num'rous throng,<br>That on his lips with list'ning pleasure hung.<br> &quot;Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,<br>&quot;Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;<br>&quot;Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,<br>&quot;Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;<br>&quot;Take him my dear Americans, he said,<br>&quot;Be your complaints on his kind bosom laid:<br>&quot;Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,<br>&quot;Impartial Saviour is his title due:<br>&quot;Wash'd in the fountain of redeeming blood,<br>&quot;You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.&quot;<br> Great Countess,* we Americans revere<br>Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;<br>New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,<br>Their more than father will no more return.<br> But, though arrested by the hand of death,<br>Whitefield no more exerts his lab'ring breath,<br>Yet let us view him in th' eternal skies,<br>Let ev'ry heart to this bright vision rise;<br>While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,<br>Till life divine re-animates his dust.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">*The Countess of Huntingdon, to whom Mr. Whitefield was<br>  Chaplain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Phillis+Wheatley">Phillis Wheatley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478645" data-title="On The Death Of Rev. Mr. George Whitefield de Phillis Wheatley" data-description="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;..."></div>
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