WE WILL NOT SAY FAREWELL. ADDRESSED TO REV. A. JUDSON. R. A. R. We may not tell thee what we feel, Love, which no stain of earth partakes - We may not praise: we dare not tell, We bless thee. Feelings long repressed, Emotions ne'er before expressed, Break from their long control. We bless thee with no uttered word, But Heaven the voiceless prayer hath heard — The language of the soul. We bless thee, for the living light, Poured upon Burmah's starless night, Bidding its darkness flee; Let heathen converts tell the rest: They bless thee, and thou shalt be blest, Through all eternity. Farewell! we may not call thee ours, Beloved from childhood's early hours, Thy home is far away. Thou art not of us, and thy heart E'en now is longing to depart, We may not bid thee stay. Yet, yet 'tis hard to let thee go, Thou in our midst may dwell. How will our spirits cling to thee, Though we no more thy face may see; WE WILL NOT SAY FAREWELL! We will go with thee. Seas may roll JUDSON LONGING FOR HIS BURMAN HOME. 293 JUDSON LONGING FOR HIS BURMAN HOME. H. S. WASHBURN. The following lines, written for the present work, by the author of "The Burial at St. Helena," the first poetical effusion relative to Mrs. Judson, that appeared after the arrival of the bereaved widower in his native land, (see page 228.) will form an appropriate conclusion to the "Judson Offering." A stranger in my native land! O home beyond the sea, How yearns with all its constant love, I left thee, when around my hearth A flower has withered on thy breast,* And sweet her rest, whose grave is made I once trod lightly on the turf That I am treading now; The flush of hope was on my cheek, And youth was on my brow *This refers to an infant son of Mr. and Mrs. Judson, who died in Burmah after their departure for America. But time hath wrought a wondrous change In all I loved and me! I prize thee, native land — but more, O Burmah! shrouded in the pall For wings for wings once more to bear To thy dark shores the light: To rear upon thy templed hills, And by thy sunny streams, The standard of the Cross, where now One prayer, my God! Thy will be doneOne only boon I crave: To finish well my work, and rest Within a Burman grave! |