The Caledonian

POETRY.

The following lines have been handed
in to us with the request that they be published
in the Caledonian. They appear in the Journal
of Concord, communicated by Rev. F.
Porter Dyer. The Rev. Mr. King, whose
memory these lines commemorate, superintended the public
worship of the Congregational church awhile. He
was taken suddenly ill on Saturday night,
November, and so rapidly it was reported he would
soon be permanently disabled, but being rallied
by the skillful use, by the fatal illness of his father,
who was seized by the same disease and in a
few days followed him to another world.

TRIBUTE
TO THE MEMORY OF REV. JONATHAN E. KING.

Gone to thy dreamless slumbers, in the silent
shades of death,
Clad in thy burnished armor, and on thy shield
of Faith—

The dust of death may gather on thy pale
though manly brows,
But for thee, the victory is won—thou art a
Conqueror now.

Thou hadst girded on the panoply of holy love
and truth,
Thou hadst brought unto the battle field the
ardor of thy youth—

Thou hadst cast the world behind thee, then
hadst counted it but dross,
For Him whose love had chosen thee a Soldier
of the Cross.

By the white horse of thy Leader with his
banner on the sky,
And his sacred name engraven on His vesture
and His thigh—

Thou hadst seen, through Faith's discerning
glass, and joined His swelling train,
And already wast a standard bearer on the
battle plain.

With the sword of Truth, made mighty by the
mighty power of God,
And pressing on with earnestness where'er the
Conqueror rode:

In the name God, the Father, and the Son
and Holy Ghost,
Thou wast leading to the marshalled line a
sacramental host!—

A shaft in speed,
And we miss thee, and we mourn thee, as one
to early dead'—
Though not too early for thyself: thou hast
Gained a sweet renown,
And won, through Everlasting Love, a kingdom
and a crown.

In the narrow, silent coffin, though cold thy
remains we lay,
To slumber Death's unconsecrated years of solitude away—

Yet loving friends with flowers of Spring shall
wreathe thy burial sod,
And sweet shall be thy balmy sleep amidst the
savor of God's
And when the last morn dawns on the long
night of the tomb,
And the strong Archangel's trumpet voice
shall shake its depths of gloom,
Thou shalt come forth from Death's ancient
halls, to more than life restored,
To the white robes of a Conqueror—through great
victory of the Lord.

Sleep on, then, in thy youthful bloom, beloved
and loving Brother.
A heed not the tears fond sisters shed, nor weeping
of thy mother.
Their grief shall be but for a night—their joy
shall come at morning,
When they behold a mitred Crown, in Heaven,
thy brow adorning!