Oh! surely 'tis a theme sublime
That stirs my soul to-day;
Awake then, muse nor slumber more,
Till sung the wondrous lay.
My song shall be of one, whose youth
And strength were freely given
To elevate, instruct, and lead
Benighted souls to heaven.

My song shall be of him, whose hand
A mother's taste did mould;
Whose precepts noble were to her
As apples of pure gold.
I'll tell of one whose virtues rare
In modesty enshrined;
Who bears a lasting laurel wreath
About his brow entwined.

Who in the days that tried men's souls
Did ne'er from duty quail,
But wrought on ensign, lifted high,
There's no such word as fail!
Mem'ries so sweet are hov'ring round,
That I, with Psalmist, say
'O! had I wings like turtle dove,
Quickly I'd fly away!'

Away, away beyond the hills
Where blooms the tree of life,
Where limpid streams whose silent flow,
Ne'er stir the sea of strife.
Oh! Bishop, Pastor, Friend, may'st thou
To green old age be spared;
Then, like a fully ripened ear
Go to thy rich reward.