L.H. Sigourney



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Poem inspired by Lady Rosse's generosity to the creation of Chase's church in Ohio. References the death of Philander Jr.


Summer 8-23-1824


Poem, Lady Rosse, Seminary, Philander Chase Jr.


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.

Letter to Philander Chase



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