Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal, Combined with large amount of love, So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal, So truly owned by God above,
Lead me, ere from our midst thou move With those who form thy family, To seek assistance from that Dove — Inspirer of true Poesy,
That I may sing a well-timed lay; One which may thy best feelings suit, And thou may'st read when far away With pleasure, as the genuine fruit
Of well-spent years that are not mute, But which have spoke in loudest tone To some who have been most astute, As I in truth would frankly own.
They've told us of a work begun Amongst thy people, brought quite low By worldliness, which Saints should shun If God's pure will they seek to know,
Or wish in safety's path to go. Thou foundest them in this sad state And to the yoke thy neck didst bow With ardor, for thy soul was great.
Satan, no doubt, with jealous eye Watched keenly for thy halting then; But thy Redeemer, ever nigh, Made much of his dread malice vain.
He spake the word and wicked men Fell down before the high-raised Cross, And forthwith steadily refrain From pleasures now viewed but as dross.
Backsliding Christians trembling came To that blest place — neglected long, And there rekindled worship's flame, And freely owned they had been wrong.
Then, feeling sense of pardon strong, Afresh they family altars raise — On which to offer sacred Song, And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.
But‘ tis a small, small part indeed Of what God had for thee to do Which I can sing; so I proceed To waft my meed of tribute through.
For I would name, with pleasure too, The part performed by thy good wife. O, that I could in measure due Descant upon her Christian life.
No party motives sway my soul, Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame; But feelings I need not control Prompt me to dwell on her dear name.
Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blame If I have sacred rapture felt In noting freely since you came, The virtues that with you have dwelt.
I frequent heard from one who saw You lying oft on bed of pain, How bright in you was love's pure glow, Meek Patience following in his train.
Now, could we see our loss your gain, Pleased we would bid you all depart; And might from vain regrets refrain Glad still to cherish you at heart.
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