University of Virginia Library

It would have been incongruous to refer in a more direct way to the Missionaries, in the text, but I cannot repress the impulse I feel, to express in a Note the further sentiments of respect which I entertain for these most excellent and elevated of Human Characters. The length of the poem would have excluded it, in this place, if the subject had been less appropriate and important.

Whilst some the Song to Chiefs and Patriots raise,
With nobler zeal, I loftier spirits praise;
Men who, to please their Maker and proclaim
To Nations sunk in night, a Saviour's name,
Have left the land where Pleasure sits and smiles,
Joyous have left, e'en Britain, Queen of Isles;—
Friends, home, contentment, all that life endears,
Freely renounced, for anguish, toil, and tears,
Endured the scorching waste, the raging flood,
While fearless on the Rock of Faith they stood.
Must each be launch'd erelong on Death's cold stream!
Each pass away—like a forgotten dream!—
O, higher thought and fearful, doth there wait
For all the Sons of Men, an endless state!
Is there an hour, momentous, drawing near,
When, all who live, shall their last sentence hear—
Yield up their stewardship, meet their Judge, and go
To joy supreme or unimagined woe!
You have believed, and for the Deluge wide
Prepared your Ark, that safe the storm shall ride.
You know there is. While others, till they die,
Deem all things serious but Eternity;
You, better taught, a future Empire raise
And spend for God your few and fleeting days.
Like your Great Master you your ease disdain,
And combat with the Scoffer, want, and pain.
Like him you view, beyond these realms of care,
Th' unfading crown which waits the Righteous there.
You have been taught th' inestimable worth
Of that great Treasure, Heaven bestow'd on Earth;
That precious Gift, that Book of Life and Light
Which sheds refulgence o'er a world of Night:
Of such a Pearl, who can the worth disguise
And brood with sordid pleasure o'er his prize?
Truth, noble, generous, longing to impart,
Conveys a genial influence to the heart:
Its element—is to dispense all good;
It feels for distant Nations, Brotherhood;
Embraces, with one ardent grasp of soul,
Men of all climes, from Ganges to the Pole.
Religion, true, with an Ithuriel touch,
May find the Miser, but ne'er left him such.
O Men! whose treasure lies in yonder sphere,
Who do not live, but only sojourn here;
Who dedicate to God, your time, your heart,
Willing to live, or ready to depart;
Whilst abject minds, for paths ignoble born,
Thunder their threats, or cast the taunt of scorn,
You hear their fierce upbraidings, and repay
With prayers for them, who know not what they say.
Thro' good and ill report, to conscience true,
You like the sun, unmoved your course pursue.
Christ is your hope, whose smile all wounds can heal;
And whilst of Heaven the foretaste sweet you feel,
You long to teach what Prophets taught before,
And sound the Gospel to Earth's farthest shore.
Oh! had the Vision call'd, in that deep dream,
Paul, eastward to have borne his sacred theme;
With Heaven's rich gifts, to feed the Tartar wild,
And not the Macedonian, Europe's Child:
Had no kind Spirit, casting fears behind,
Bless'd with a pulse that beat for all mankind,
(Whose heart the Light contain'd) once thoughtful stood,
Framing luxurious schemes for human good,
Beheld where Albion's snow-white clifts appear'd,
And boldly to the barbarous Briton steer'd,
How had our Savage Faith its strength maintain'd,
And what even here the Night that now had reign'd!
Climes, once for Arts and Science fair renown'd,
As time roll'd on, have plunged in shades profound;
Whilst Lands, to ten-fold darkness long resign'd,
Have burst their bonds, and led the Sons of Mind.
Haply, O Heaven avert the curse severe!
Once more the Pagan Rite may triumph here;
And regions, now, where men to Idols bend,
The Altar reverence and the Ark defend!
What might so soon God's sleeping wrath awake,
And o'er our Isle, tempt him his scourge to shake,
His lamp remove, his heritage forsake,
As languor, to extend the Gospel Sound,
The Bread of Life, to starving Nations round!—
As that disastrous, mournful spirit, chill,
Which scorns to work and frustrates those who will!
Soft as the far-off murmuring of the sea,
Sweet as at morn the Birds' clear melody,
(Amid the shout of Orgies Vile) I hear
The still small voice of Penitence and Prayer!
Sunk as they were in guilt, abased, depraved,
Ten Righteous Men had once a People saved,
Hope yet is ours! Tho' crowds on every side,
Their Maker's Laws disdain, his Threats deride,
England may boast, even yet, her righteous few,
Salt of our land! and not the least in you.
How shall the future sons of sires, who now,
In climes remote, to stocks and statues bow—
(O fearful depth of folly and of crime!
Man, even Man! endued with powers sublime,
Disclaims his rank, to basest things that be
Lifts the adoring eye, and bends the knee!)
How shall such, brought to their maturer sense,
Read with delight the page of Providence!
How shall such, rescued from their thraldom vile,
Pour thanks to Heaven, then, with an angel-smile,
Gaze back ward far upon the men revered,
Who first their land with Songs of Sion cheer'd,
Brought them the Truth, the Book of Knowledge spread,
And pour'd its thousand blessings on their head!
What gratulations, what transcendent praise
Their hearts to you shall breathe, their voices raise,
As, basking in the light, a glance they cast,
O'er the dark vale, the dreary desert past!
As, on their race of storms, their night of woe,
Safe, from the mount of God, they look below!
When waning age on age hath roll'd away,
Since you with earth have mix'd your honer'd clay,
While hosts, oblivion down to darkness bear,
Still shall your memory flourish fresh and fair;
Of you, the lisping Child shall learn to speak,
Whilst the warm tear steals down the Mother's cheek:
Yet nobler thoughts than these your heart beguile;—
Conscience' sweet voice and Heaven's approving smile,
Ye Great of Earth, arise! At once appear
Cæsars and Pompeys, men unknown to fear;
Whose warlike feats the porphyry column bears;
Who view'd the World, and proudly call'd it theirs;
Who lived to tread the steep, to build the name,
Whilst slaughter'd thousands mark'd their road to fame.
What grateful heart, slow, from the dying bed,
Ere call'd on Heaven for blessings on their head!
Crowds, rather, in their pangs, with death in sight,
Curs'd on the hour which gave them to the light.
These are not Great! Illustrious men and wise,
You are the Great, whose deeds to Glory rise!
You distant realms have sought, with untold pains,
Not to explore fresh marts, or count new gains,
Like some Dark Fiend, with venom in your eye,
To swell the tide of human misery,
But, with benignant smile, your joys to share,
To free the Captive, smooth the brow of care,
Throw back the veil, the Star of Hope display,
And guide benighted souls to endless day.
Such Brainerd was, who braved th' inclement sky,
To teach the friendless Indian how to die.
Such Swartz was found, who, 'mid the Heathen, long,
Unfainting, toil'd, and lived to hear the song
From the Wide Banian, in loud concert rise,
Harmonious, to the Father of the Skies.
Such Vanderkemp, such Carey, Marshman, are,
With those who sow, 'mid southern Isles afar,
Or round steep Caucasus, or on the shore
Of ice-bound Greenland, or rude Labrador,
Or in Columbian Isles, where men, with skins
Black as their Master's hearts, less black their sins,
Rejoice, with tears, and toils, and groans opprest,
To hear from you, of Heaven that world of Rest.
You are the Great of Earth! While hearts of steel
Behold the wound, and feel no wish to heal,
You view remote, nor heed-the threatning wave,
Millions expiring lie, and rush to save.
If, sometimes, whilst thro' distant lands you roam,
You cast a lingering look toward Friends and Home,
Think oftener, on the sure, the blissful state,
The Palms, the Crowns which for the Pilgrim wait.
Should pain assault you, still in God believe;
Should sorrow reach, O think for whom you grieve:
Should want, in lonely climes, your steps pursue,
Dwell on that Name who suffered more for you.
He has declared, whate'er his Servants bear,
For him, their Master, in this world of care,
Blessings shall still exceed their tears and sighs,
Whilst, in reversion, joy unfading lies.
Guiding the Gospel Plough, gird up your mind!
Heed not the chaff which you have left behind!
Look forward, courage take, behold the end!
What can you deign to mourn, with God your Friend?
You seek not earth's reward, nor man's applause,
You all are Champions in your Maker's Cause;
And round your arduous path, tho' sad, the while
Crowds of admiring Angels watch and smile.
The hour must come, haply it draweth nigh,
The fast unfolding Dawn of Prophecy,
When Love Divine shall every heart inflame,
And every tongue confess Immanuel's name;
Warm'd with such prospects, in the darkest day,
Be Heaven's eternal word your staff and stay;
With zeal, around, your glorious mission spread,
And make your Father's Will, your daily bread.
May He, in every hour of need provide,
In sickness cheer you, and thro' dangers guide;
Make smooth and plain your path, where'er you go,
Bid you, like him, the Gospel Trumpet blow,
Who with the Goal in sight, a Heaven, a Home,
All things could bear, Stripes, Bonds and Martyrdom.
Not o'er a sea, unruffled, calm and clear,
Must you your venturous Bark expect to steer:
The sun sometimes may smile, the zephyr blow,
And soft and sweet the tide of feeling flow;
When, like the alternate changes of the deep,
Tempests and storms, the louring skies may sweep;
Expect, nor be deceived. Alike prepare
Hardships or ease to meet, the Soldier's fare.
If Friends protect, on God the praise bestow;
If Foes assail, with meekness bear the blow;
Nor hope to root out errors strong and deep,
Save like the men who plough before they reap.
Hell, roused from slumber, in his dread array,
Erelong, in rage, may rise to meet the fray;
Call up Foul Spirits, to himself allied,
And yield, with mortal throe, his empire wide;
But he who leads you forth, for your defence,
Will screen you with his own Omnipotence.
Be not, at aught, too joyous or too pain'd,
Fear must be check'd and Hope herself restrain'd.
Our sight is but a point, our life—a day!
Grief soon subsides, and pleasures—where are they!
Tho' with our own dear schemes our bosoms swell,
What might be best at last, we cannot tell.
The cloud that looks so fair, may waft distress,
The tear, the pang, the cross, be sent to bless.
That Sovereign Power, to whose pervading eye,
All times, the past, the future, naked lie;
Whether he walk conspicuous, clothed in light,
Or all his footsteps mists involve and night,
Even Him, adoring still, our hearts should own,
And say, “Thy will be done, and thine alone.”
As on you go, proclaiming as you can
Salvation for the rebel race of man;
Freedom that breaks the fetters of the mind,
Ears to the deaf, and vision to the blind,
Should hosts, dissolved in tears, your tidings hail,
Should Satan's kingdom fall and Truth prevail,
Thousands on thousands round your footsteps throng,
Confess his name to whom all hearts belong.
Yet should but here and there a blade be found,
Whilst weeds, in rank luxuriance, wave around;
Should they be foes to you, who were before
Foes to the God, whom you unseen adore,
Let not Egyptian night your souls dismay,
Faint is the opening dawn that leads to day:
But should no fruit your longing spirits cheer,
O'er the wide scene should naught but tares appear,
Let Faith, unwavering, still support your feet,
Nor faint, tho' torrents roar and tempests beat.
What tho' no garlands crown your mortal race,
Nor fruits, nor flowers, around your path you trace,
Seed sown by you, long 'neath the ground may lie,
Water'd of God, unmarked by mortal eye,
Ordain'd, in the appointed hour, to rise,
And with majestic verdure fill the skies.
Soul reverenced men! Receive th' applauding strain,
Which kings and conquerors might desire in vain.
To you, a distant brother leads the song,
Which thousands join, in chorus loud and long.
'Mid lands, that never heard Jehevah's praise,
Aspire the Standard of the Cross to raise,
Earth's mourning sons, with your glad tidings cheer,
Go! and a Temple to your Maker rear!
Whilst there are lands, and tribes which countless be,
Who never joy'd to hear our jubilee,
Who never knew the christian's rich repast,
Pardon and peace, and hope of Heaven at last,
But to pernicious lies and rites resign'd,
With death and darkness league their prostrate mind,
Be you with zeal inflamed, in strength array'd,
Strive in the glorious conflict undismay'd,
And with the arm of God to lead the way,
Lift the loud trump, the torch of truth display.
Shall petty sights alone attract our eye,
The rise and fall of mortal majesty—
Kingdoms and men, who in perpetual round
Blaze and expire? Shall these our prospects bound,
And not your cause—the Glory of our age,
(Grandest of all which human minds engage!)
Awake our highest interest, hopes and fears,
The heart that vibrates, and the voice that cheers?
They who, beyond the present, view, combin'd,
The mighty Future, trampling time behind,
Feel, with spontaneous glow, in every vein,
Ardour to burst the Heathen's mental chain—
To waft to them our pearl of matchless price,
And wider spread the gates of Paradise.
May you who wage the warfare with the foe;
May you who freely of your wealth bestow;
May you whose hearts implore, and ever will,
His blessing which must give the increase still,
Strive in your different ways, more earnest be,
Not fainting, you secure the victory.
Once more, amid the sickening scenes that rise,
Good men and great, to you I turn my eyes.
The star of Bethlehem, from night profound,
Emerges fair, with sun-like splendour crown'd.
Vision on vision, kindling, I survey,
Till with o'erpowering beam it dies away.
And can it be, that who the brunt sustain
Should call aloud for aid, yet call in vain?
Alone, 'neath sultry suns the toil you bear,
The field is wide but labourers few are there.
In such a conflict, and with such a prize
To rouze their zeal, may kindred spirits rise,
Sent, and endued with unction from above,
Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove,
Proud to support your hands, like you to deal
The Words of Life Eternal, which reveal
Where our best treasure lies, our hopes refine,
And point our ardent gaze to Things Divine.
While thus of faith and righteousness you preach,
And your whole walk confirms the truths you teach,
Fearless, the path pursue (tho' men revile)
On which th' Almighty smiles and still will smile,
Till all the Powers of Darkness vanquish'd fly,
And Earth one Altar rears, to Him who form'd the Sky.

With some such feeling of undefined and intangible greatness, as is excited in the mind, by the Dedications, in many old books, to the Noblemen and Bishops of former days, in which the most superlative talents are ascribed to them, with a profusion of apostolical virtues which were to call forth the idolatry of all succeeding ages. In our endeavours however to form a more intimate acquaintance with these earthly luminaries, we often find that the wings of their fame have been unfortunately “clipped,” and that their only remaining record, and our only remaining guide, is “Robert, Lord Arch Bishop of York,” or “William, Lord Bishop of Lincoln,” or “Richard, Earl of Carbery.” (This Lord Richard, indeed was the friend and patron of Jeremy Taylor; reputation enough for any moderate man.) The Bishops, of late, have generally prefixed their own proper names to their publications, and, when addressed, have required the same of others, which gives all the discrimination, of which human notice is susceptible, but, in general “My Lord,” or “His Grace,” who is complimented with these high notices, is ordained to irremediable obscurity, from the difficulty of attaching distinct ideas of personality, where the title, or in the language of Botany, where the genus and not the individual is made the distinguishing mark. To the credit of the present age, these lying and fulsome dedications are less common than they were. Over some men we mourn that—in their intellectual opulence, rather than be independent on a pittance (sometimes not a pittance) so preserving the health of their mind, that blessing above praise, that they should stoop to flatter and bow down with obeysance to those (titled or not) between whom there was no reciprocity of honour. Like the decorations in some of our old abbeys, the gold has remained, while rottenness lies beneath.