Who is this they bear along the street
In his coffin through the sunshine sweet?
Who is this so many comrades crave,
Turn by turn, to carry to the grave?
Who is this for whom the hillward track
Glooms with mounting lines of mourners black?
Till the Baptists' green old burial-ground
Clasps them all within its quiet bound.
Here John Owen we must lay to rest,
'Tis for him our hearts are sore distressed;
Since his sister wistfully he eyed,
Bowed his head upon her breast and died.
Well and truly at his work he wrought;
Every Harlech road to order brought;
Then through winter evenings dark and long
At the chapel gave his heart to song.
Till before his gesture of command--
Till before his hushing voice and hand--
Sweeter, fuller strains who could desire
Than he charmed from out his Baptist choir.
Many a time the passer-by enchained
By their rapture to its close remained,
And the churches joyfully agreed
Their united choirs his skill should lead.
So in Handel's choruses sublime
He would train them for the Christmas time;
Mould their measures for the concert hall,
Roll their thunders round the Castle wall.
Loving husband, tender father, quick
To console the suffering and sick--
Christ to follow was his constant aim,
Christ's own deacon ere he bore the name.
Widowed wife and children fatherless,
Stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress--
Sorrow swept them all beneath its wave
As his coffin sank into the grave.
But his Pastor's fervent voice went forth,
Delicately dwelling on his worth,
Urging his example, till at last
Heavenly comfort o'er our grief he cast.
For his lonely ones we bowed in prayer,
Sighed one hymn, and left him lying there,
Whispering: "Lord, Thy will be done to-day,
Thou didst give him, Thou hast taken away."