and wife, salute Aaron Wills and his wife, cousin Samuel Stokes and wife, and others who ask for us. Farewell. To Robert Willis. Mountmelick, Ireland, 3d mo. 15th, 1772. Dearly united friend, fellow-labourer, and companion in the hope of the gospel,—we very dearly salute thee;-having frequent remembrance of, and deep sympathy with thee, in thy stepping along. It is with grateful acknowledgment to the Preserver of men, we may inform thee, we are in health; and our lives, in the pure seed, as yet for a prey.— Though deaths are oft, and trials very many, yet He in whom wisdom and knowledge remain, is still near; and I hope will be near thee, in all thy journeying, to divide the way for thee through clouds and thick darkness. Dear Robert, be encouraged in thy service. My spirit unites, and feels with thee therein, that the Lord owns thy labours of love to his heritage;-and he will still own, as we gather deep in the gift to him, waiting for his work to come up in the mystery, with the true stamp and seal. Hoping, if the Lord will, to see thee at London, shall conclude with affectionate nearness, thy little, younger brother in the love of Truth. WILLIAM HUNT, TO THE MEMORY Of Thomas Ross, of Wrightstown, Bucks county, Through many a bitter conflict, sorely won, But light etherial gilds thy setting sun, And heaven rewards thy labours at the last. Oft, in sweet converse, have I heard thee say, "The end crowns all," then add, "May God sustain, And keep me in the true and living way, How oft bewail infirmities, that drew وو Thy erring feet out of the narrow path; He who sustain'd thee through life's stormy sea, And rais'd thy drooping head above the wave, Now, in the needful hour, revisits thee, And shows himself omnipotent to save. What wonder then, thy praise incessant flows!- Downward, on sinful mortals wouldst thou look, And oft, methinks, I almost heard thee cry, Pardon them, Lord, or blot me from thy book. Not sway'd by pride, from thy own sphere to move, In thy own measure only did'st impart; Content to render to the God of love, That grateful sacrifice-an humble heart. But who can tell what pains thy virtues cost? What days of penitence, and nights of pray'r? Right hands cut off, right eyes pluck'd out, and lost? Rich trophies these-and only won in war! The world, the flesh,-and satan in the van, Great principalities and powers, suppress'd,Too great, alas! for feeble, fallen man, Did not, O Lord, on thee the burden rest. Aided by thee, see the poor pilgrim move, In slow gradation, thro' the humble vale; Tho' to detach and draw him from thy love, See all the powers of darkness him assail. And often, sore beset on every side, No ray of light to lead the eye to thee, Distress'd, dejected, and without a guide, The Christian waits, thy saving pow'r to see. Not like the world, -thy meliorating treat,— And introduce thee to the throne of God. 'Tis thus, indeed, thy end is amply crown'd, Tho' sown in tears, thy crop is reap'd in joy; Fled are thy sorrows,-heal'd is every wound,No fears torment thee, and no cares annoy. That praise which here delighted-there transports, And elevates thy soul to raptures high, When seen the order in the spacious courts, Of Him, whose throne is fix'd above the sky. There pleasures pure, and wonders ever new, In sweet succession open on the soul, And unremitting streams of bliss shall flow, When these inferior subjects cease to roll. But, while I contemplate the exalted theme, Oh! let me not forget my station here; Nor vainly cherish the delusive dream Of conquests won, and vict'ry, without war. Pain is the harbinger of endless joy, And death, the gate that opens to the skies, Affliction is the school of the Most High To teach the fool,-and wiser make the wise, To rouse the soul that, o'er the yawning pit, In dreadful slumber, wastes the present hour, To awe the bold,—and make the proud submit,— That all may praise, and wonder, and adore. But while devoted to a father's name, The muse, this humble tribute would bestow, Which opes the wonders of the future scene, Thomas Ross was a native of Tyrone, in Ireland, and came to America when a young man. He settled in Bucks county, where he became a member among Friends, and for many years was acceptably exercised in the ministry. His preaching is described to have been lively and edifying. But his religious labours were not confined to these public services; for he was frequently concerned to impart counsel and admonition in a more private way, especially to young people, for whom he manifested a paternal solicitude, that their attention might be directed to that all-sufficient grace in the heart, and that by constant watchfulness and prayer, they might be preserved from the vanities of the world, and from all the dangers to which they were exposed. He went to England in 1784, on a religious visit. After spending about two years in this engagement, he died near York, in the seventy-eighth year of his age. An interesting account of him is preserved in the memorials concerning deceased Friends, published in Philadelphia, in 1821. |