John Quincy Adams

Born: July 11, 1767, Braintree, Massachusetts. Died: February 23, 1848, Washington, DC. Buried: First Parish Church, Quincy, Massachusetts. Adams was the sixth Pres­i­dent of the Unit­ed States. He wrote a met­ric­al ver­sion of the psalms, as well as sev­er­al hymns. His di­a­ry ent­ry for June 29, 1845, reads: Mr. Lunt preached this morn­ing from Ec­cles­i­as­tes iii. I, “To ev­ery­thing there is a sea­son and a time for ev­er­y pur­pose un­der hea­ven.” He had giv­en out as the first hymn to be sung the 138th of the Christ­ian Psal­ter—his com­pil­a­tion, and the hymn-book now used in our church. It was my ver­sion of the 65th Psalm; and no words can ex­press the sen­sa­tions with which I heard it sung. Were it pos­sible to com­press into one pul­sa­tion of the heart the plea­sure which, in the whole per­i­od of my life, I have en­joyed in praise from the lips of mor­tal man, it would not weigh a straw to bal­ance the ec­sta­sy of de­light which streamed from my eyes as the or­gan pealed and the choir of voic­es sung the praise of Al­mighty God from the soul of Dav­id, adapt­ed to my na­tive tongue by me. After Adams’ death, some of his poetry was pub­lished in Poems of Re­li­gion and So­ci­e­ty by John Quin­cy Adams, by John Da­vis and T. H. Ben­ton (New York: Wil­liam H. Gra­ham, 1848). Here is a sample from that book: TO A BEREAVED MOTHER Sure, to the mansions of the blest, When infant innocence ascends, Some angel, brighter than the rest, The spotless spirit’s flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise, Beyond where worlds material roll; Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam, With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolor’d gleam The more it lingers upon earth. Closed in this dark abode of clay, The stream of glory faintly burns:— Not unobserved, the lucid ray To its own native fount returns. But when the Lord of mortal breath Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death Which speeds an infant to the tomb— No passion fierce, nor low desire, Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! Let hope her healing charm impart And soothe, with melodies divine, The anguish of a mother’s heart. O, think! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod, Amid unnumber’d saints above, Bask in the bosom of their God.