Elegy On The Reverend Mr. James Hervey Poem by Anonymous British

Urania, speak! in pensive numbers tell
How Zion trembled when great Hervey fell!
When fail'd his strength, and when his pulse beat low,
Tell how she mourn'd to see the impending blow!
O thou, to whom all sacred themes belong,
Pour forth the sweetly melancholy song!
'Alas! grim death hath shot the fatal dart,
Which long seem'd pointed at his languid heart;
The insatiate tyrant, crown'd with funeral gloom,
In triumph drags him to the hollow tomb!
Who now so well can paint the blooming flower,
Or preach from sepulchres at midnight hour?
Who now so well the starry heavens scan,
And read the lectures nature meant for man?
No more his voice a careless world can move,
Or tell the wonders of a redeeming love;
No more shall thousands round his pulpit throng,
To hear the heavenly precepts of his tongue;
For lo! above this gross impurer air,
Released from every pain and every care,
He soars aloft (angelic hosts his guide)
On wings new plumed, which ne'er before he tried.
With rapid speed his golden pinions rise
Through starry planes, and skim the empyrean skies,
And now, where sparkling portals wide display
The blissful regions of eternal day,
His Lord receives him 'midst celestial choirs,
Who crown his head, and strike their golden lyres:
Through heaven's glad courts the greeting anthems roll,
and joys new blooming feast his ravish'd soul;
Joys which to tell all eloquence is faint,
And which the loftiest muse can never paint.'