On the same

Check, mournful Preacher! check thy streaming Woe, Pierce not our Souls with Grief too great to know; He joys above whom we lament below. Snatch'd from our Follies here, he wing'd his Way, To sing HOSANNAS in the Realms of Day. With him, the Fight of Life and Death is o'er, And agonizing Throes shall pain no more; No more shall fell Disease, with wasteful Rage, Blast the fair Blossoms of his tender Age; Transplanted now, he blooms a heav'nly Flow'r, Where Spring eternal decks yon Amarinthine Bower.

Thy pious Sorrows, SMITH, to future Days, Shall bear his Image, and transmit his Praise. Still, still I feel what thy Discourse imprest, When Pity throb'd, congenial, in each Breast: When deep Distress came thrilling from thy Tongue, And sympathizing Crouds attentive hung. To mourn for thy lov'd Pupil all approv'd; On such a Theme, 'twas Virtue to be mov'd. Whoe'er these tender Pages shall explore, Must learn those Griefs the Pulpit taught before.