Dedicated to the Right Rev’d D. A. Payne

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.