Jesus!  I love thy charming name,
  ’Tis music to my ear: 
  Fain would I sound it out so loud,
  That earth and heaven should hear.

  Yea! thou art precious to my soul,
  My transport and my trust;
  Jewels to Thee are gaudy toys,
  And gold is sordid dust.

  All my capacious powers can wish,
  In Thee most richly meet;
  Nor to mine eyes is life so dear,
  Nor friendship half so sweet.

  Thy grace still dwells upon my heart,
  And sheds its fragrance there;
  The noblest balm of all its wounds,
  The cordial of its care.

  I’ll speak the honours of thy name
  With my last labouring breath;
  Then speechless clasp thee in my arms,
  The antidote of death.

Those who were intimate with Colonel Gardiner, must have observed how ready he was to give a devotional turn to any subject that occurred.  In particular, the spiritual and heavenly disposition of his soul discovered itself in the reflections and improvements which he made when reading history, in which he took a great deal of pleasure, as persons remarkable for their knowledge of mankind, and observation of Providence, generally do.  I have an instance of this before me, which, though too natural to be at all surprising, will, I dare say, be pleasing to the devout mind.  He had just been reading, in Rollin’s extracts from Xenophon, the answer which the lady of Tigranes made when all the company were extolling Cyrus, and expressing the admiration with which his appearance and behaviour struck them.  The question being asked her, What she thought of him? she answered, “I do not know; I did not observe him.”  On what, then, said one of the company did you fix your attention?  “On him,” replied she, (referring to the generous speech which her husband had just made,) “who said he would give a thousand lives to ransom my liberty.”  “Oh,” cried the colonel, when reading it, “how ought we to fix our eyes and hearts on Him who, not in offer, but in reality, gave his own precious life to ransom us from the most dreadful slavery, and from eternal destruction!” But this is only one instance among a thousand.  His heart was so habitually set upon divine things, and he had such a permanent and overflowing sense of the love of Christ, that he could not forbear connecting such reflections with a multitude of more distant occasions occurring in daily life, on which less advanced Christians would not have thought of them; and thus, like our great Master, he made every little incident a source of devotion, and an instrument of holy zeal.

Enfeebled as his constitution was, he was still intent on improving his time to some valuable purpose; and when his friends expostulated with him that he gave his body so little rest, he used to answer, “It will rest long enough in the grave.”