On the Death of the Rev. Mr. GEORGE WHITEFIELD. 1770.
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,5
And ev'ry boſom with devotion glow'd;
Thou didſt in ſtrains of eloquence refin'd
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy we the ſetting ſun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it ſhines no more.10
Behold the prophet in his tow'ring flight!
He leaves the earth for heav'n's unmeaſur'd height,
And worlds unknown receive him from our ſight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid courſe his way,
And ſails to Zion through vaſt ſeas of day.15
Thy pray'rs, great ſaint, and thine inceſſant cries
Have pierc'd the boſom cf thy native ſkies.
Thou
