Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

WE WILL NOT SAY FAREWELL.

ADDRESSED TO REV. A. JUDSON.

R. A. R.

We may not tell thee what we feel,
For words are powerless to reveal
Love deep as ours to thee;

Love, which no stain of earth partakes -
Love, pure and holy - for His sake,
Whose image lives in thee.

We may not praise: we dare not tell,
The love with which our bosoms swell,
Nor can we cheer thy heart;
But with a power unfelt till now,
We would call down upon thy brow,
A blessing ere we part.

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.

[ocr errors]

Yet, yet 'tis hard to let thee go,
Feeling that never more below

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
Between our homes, but the free soul
Across their waves shall glide.
God grant us, when this life is o'er,
To meet thee on a happier shore,
And still be by thy side.

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,
This weary heart for thee.

I left thee, when around my hearth
Was gathering thickest gloom,
And gentle ones have since that hour
Descended to the tomb.

A flower has withered on thy breast,*
Thou wilt that treasure keep;

And sweet her rest, whose grave is made
Away upon the deep.

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,
My home beyond the sea.

O Burmah! shrouded in the pall
Of error's dreadful night!

For wings

[ocr errors]

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
The proud Pagoda gleams.

One prayer, my God! Thy will be doneOne only boon I crave:

To finish well my work, and rest

Within a Burman grave!

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN

3 9015 02012 5715

« AnteriorContinuar »