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Title: To The Memory Of Mr. Page, Late Of Pulham Market
Author: James Parkerson [
More Titles by Parkerson]
My pen but faintly can declare,
The virtues of his mind;
Well he deserves the friendly tear,
From those he leaves behind.
Dissimulation could not rest
A moment on his face,
No wicked thoughts annoy’d his breast,
Nor envy found a place.
To friends and neighbours was sincere,
He cheerful pass’d the day;
His memory many will revere,
Till they are call’d away.
Enough I cannot say of him,
The reason’s very plain;
But few were so devoid of sin,
No better here remain.
Quite well he knew the ways of life,
Performed one noble plan,
Avoiding things that brought or strife,
And justice did to man.
His conversation sweetly pure,
For prudence led the way;
None but those he could endure,
Who would her strains obey.
Once on a time by ills oppress’d,
I asked his friendly aid;
He lull’d my anxious mind to rest,
And sorrow quick dismayed.
At Pulham market, left behind,
Those friends he did revere;
To every stranger they are kind
To friendship are sincere.
No party spirit there can dwell,
A day within that place;
They bid her give a long farewell,
Nor dare to show her face.
The humble tradesman can retire,
If pleasure leads his mind;
Beside the wealthy farmer’s fire,
And gain attention kind.
The labouring poor will seldom part,
From those that him employ;
Good usage animates the heart,
And bitter thoughts destroy.
In the gay village all around,
A little cot you’ll find,
Behind it is the garden ground,
To please the tenants’ mind.
Seldom is rais’d the tasker’s cot,
Not often turn’d away;
No murmuring on his master’s spot,
He cheerful him obey.
The farmer’s wife the poor supply,
With barm and milk beside,
To do them good each other vie,
To serve them is their pride.
The humble and the wealthy sing
To Albion’s long success;
Good news for England pleasure bring,
And adverse gales distress.
Again on Page my humble strains,
With melancholy dwell;
To tell the grief and heart felt pains,
To bid a long farewell.
It’s gratitude that urge the pen,
It’s friendship leads the way;
To speak the virtues of a man,
That death has call’d away.
Oh may his spirit ever rest,
Beside the God of all,
And ever number’d with the blest,
Till he shall judge us all.
Death brought no terrors to his heart,
For resignation staid,
Till from his life he should depart,
And lent her cheering aid.
Oh God he cried I’ve no pretence,
To think election sure;
Cleanse, cleanse my soul, ere I go hence
And join me with the pure.
[The end]
James Parkerson's poem: To The Memory Of Mr. Page, Late Of Pulham Market
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