Martinsburgh Gazette

POETRY.

FOR THE GAZETTE.

THE CRUSADER'S DEATH.

Oft on the heights of Salem's darkening heath,
When midnight reigns; pale monitor of Death,
The pilgrim wearied-out with journeying far,
Or soldier safe, from desolating war;
Is seen to trim his faintly glimmering light,
To watch the slow hours of the revolving night.
Till from the dawning east, the King of day,
Mounting aloft, moves on his dazzling way,
And pouring down a golden flood of rays,
Awakes the loud voice of the Christian's praise,
"Give thanks to God! Give thanks." the pilgrim cries;
Anon to Heaven he lifts his joyful eyes.
Finished his course, and reach'd the long sought goal,
Ecstatic pleasures thrill the enraptured soul.
"Come death! sweet messenger of rest: draw near
Ye saints and angels bright: Away vain fear,
For lo! the bright regions of eternal day,
Loose, loose! my soul from this weak fainting clay
Oh Death my wearied spirit now redeem
From this drear region of unceasing pain,
'Tis done; he falls; the martyred pilgrim dies,
To heaven, in triumph, his winged spirit flies.
Conveyed by angels of Empyrean light,
Along the ethereal way, she wings her flight,
To the bless'd regions of immortal day
Chanting harmonious the angelic lay.
Glory to Him, the eternal Son of God.
Who, to redeem, has kiss'd the tyrant rod
Of death, and to the world strict mercy show'd,
As bore the price of his most precious blood.
Now to thy dazzling throne, exalted King.
Assemble gratitude, our crowns we bring.
We cast them at thy feet, and sing forever more,
The glorious triumphs of thy matchless power.
Such was the song, which Heaven's bright armies sung.
And to such glorious notes sublimely strung
Angelic harp, that hail'd that solemn day,
When to redeem lost man Christ the ransom pay
On blood divine. The sun withdrew his light
And spread around the darkened shade of night.
The rocks were rent; the towering mountains shook,
From the long sleep of death, the dead awoke
That holiest place, where seldom footstep trod,
Widens to view the dying God.
Forbid description! cease; too weak thy power
To paint the grandeur of that solemn hour.
Methinks I hear the full celestial choir.
Chanting sublime his praise, their harps conspire,
Through Heaven's high dome their glorious
songs to raise,
Where lofty anthems swell from praise to praise.

X.