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The Philander Chase letters were written in the 18th and 19th century and therefore may contain language that we understand today as harmful or offensive. You may encounter paternalist descriptions of Native Americans, racial slurs, or sexism. For more information, see our policy page.
Description
Poem inspired by Lady Rosse's generosity to the creation of Chase's church in Ohio. References the death of Philander Jr.
Date
Summer 8-23-1824
Keywords
Poem, Lady Rosse, Seminary, Philander Chase Jr.
Recommended Citation
Sigourney, L.H., "Letter to Philander Chase" (1824). Philander Chase Letters. 500.
https://digital.kenyon.edu/chase_letters/500
Rights Statement
Transcript
On the Librality of Lady Rosse to Bishop Chase in England, and the Appropriation of a part of it, to the [creation] of a Church in Ohio
I saw a Stranger’s foot the vendure [press]
Of that blest Isle where throng, the Sons of woe
From every Land, as erst the sorrowing trains
Of stern disease, and ghastly sickness sought
To reach His robe, which they who touch’d whole
--I mark’d him as he [?]. Like one he [sum’d]
Who [dares] the waves of this tempestous [sic] world
Because her vestments cumber not the soul.
Sublime he stood, as the firm rock which herds
Nor mist, nor vapor curtaining round its base,
For on its crown that purer ether rests
Which clouds pollute not. On his mitred brow
Mingled with majesty, methought there dwelt
The primitive simplicity and zeal
[?] those who at the summons of their Lord
[?]ing nor purse nor scrip, went fearless forth
I saw him toward the treasury of God
[Mutely] advance, and there he [cast] his all, -
His little all, - his wife and childrens wealth,
Still like that ancient, consecrated tribe
Whose portion was the Altar, and whose wealth
The Altar’s God, his trusting Spirit spake
Through his raised eye. “be Thou my heritage.”
I saw him even his garment from his breast
[Ungind] - Though Winters gather’d, wrath arose.
But distant voices said it was to shield
The Saviour’s suffering Church. And then I [?]
The Shepherd and the Bishop of that Flock
Where [Fold] was in the Wilderness. Sad tears
Were in his eye, such as a Father weeps,
When far away his son--his faithful friend
His fellow champion in the field of Christ
Feels from his youthful breast the Armour fall,
And sinks in death. By pitying strangers mourn’d
Yet on his heart a deeper sorrow prey’d -
The sainted soul that from its fetters burst
Had risen to glory; but the Infant Church
Which in his bosom as a daughter lay
Waking his warm [prayer] duly night & morn
Languish’d and pin’d, as droops the smitten flower
For Gilead’s balm she sought, but there was none,
Implor’d the healer’s aid--and no man’s ear
Regarded her complaint. For her he wept,
And in the Shepherd’s grief the [Sire’s] forgot.
With truth’s strong eloquence her wounds spread he,
Before that Nation where Benevolence
Hath rear’d her throne, bidding her light illume
The [?] heathen, in his midnight cell
[?] Earths distant bound.
And one there was.
Daughter of that proud clime from whence our Sires
Derive their origin - But yet her name
I speak not, for with Angels pen ‘tis trac’d
On the bright tablet of the pure in heart
She spake, and from the bosom of the wild
Where erst the roaming savage snar’d his prey
And the wild monster howl’d - a temple rose
Bearing the standard of the living God,
She spake, and from its dedicated dome
Burst forth the soul of praise. The lips of Age
Responded to blest Simeon’s raptured song,
While manhood’s strength, with the [entreating] tone
Of Matron piety, the [timbril] voice
Of Virgin beauty, even the unconscious joy
Of Babes and sucklings join’d the Organs peal
Soft, sonorous, mellifluent, like the rush
Of many waters [blent] with harps unseen,
As if the penitent on earth had learnt
The tuneful hymn of the redeemed in heaven.
She spake, and from the Western [Rose], whose leaves
The blast had scatter’d, and the [warm] destroy’d
New blossoms started, and fresh fragrance breath’d
And when the last flame lights the trembling [?]
When the proud [Hero]’s crimson [scroll] shall shrink
Like shrivell’d parchment, when the kings of earth
Forget their diadem, a voice shall rise
Forth from the tombs where slumbering saints awoke
To bless the Author of such holy deed.