Lays for the Dead :: :: University of Virginia Library

How well do I remember the day I first met thee
'T was in scenes long forsaken, in moments long fled;
Then, little I thought that a world would regret thee,
And Europe and Asia both mourn for thee dead.

Ah! little I thought, in those gay social hours,
That round thy young head e'en the laurel would twine;
Still less, that a wreath of the amaranth's flowers
Entwin'd with a palm, would, O Heber! be thine!

We met in the world—and the light that shone round thee
Was the dangerous blaze of wit's meteor ray;

But then, though unseen, mercy's angel had found thee,
And the bright star of Bethlehem was marking thy way.

To the banks of the Isis, a far fitter dwelling,
Thy footsteps return'd, and thy hand to its lyre;
While thy breast with a bard's young ambition was swelling,
Yet holy the theme was that waken'd its fire.

Again in the world, and with worldlings I met thee,
And then thou wert welcom'd as Palestine's bard;
They had scorn'd at the task which the Saviour had set thee,
The Christian's rough labours, the martyr's reward.

Yet the one was thy calling, thy portion the other,
The far sons of India received thee and bless'd;

While the humblest of teachers dar'd greet as a brother,
And love thee though clad in the prelate's proud vest.

In the meek lowly Christian forgot was thy greatness;
The follower they saw of a crucified Lord:
For thy zeal show'd his spirit, thine accents his sweetness,
Till the heart of the heathen drank deep of the word.

Bright, as short, was thy course! since a coal from the altar
First touch'd thy bless'd lip, and the voice bade thee “go:”
Thy faith could not pause, and thy feet could not falter,
Till o'er India's wide waters advanc'd thy swift prow.

In vain her fierce sun, with its cloudless effulgence,
Seem'd arrows of death to shoot forth with each ray;

Thy zeal gave to fear and fatigue no indulgence,
But on to the goal urg'd thy perilous way.

And, martyr of zeal! thou e'en here wast rewarded;
When the swart sons of India came round thee in throngs:
When thee, as a father, they fondly regarded,
Who taught them and bless'd, in their own native tongues.

While thou heardst them their faith's awful errors disclaiming;
Confess the pure creed which the Saviour had given;
That moment, thy mission's blest triumph proclaiming,
Appear'd to thy feelings a foretaste of heaven!

“Still, on!” cried the voice, and surrounding her altar,
Trichinopoly's sons hail'd thy labours of love—
Ah! me, with no fear did thine accents then falter;
No secret forebodings thy conscious heart move?

Thou hadst ceas'd—having taught them what rock to rely on,
And aside laid the robes which to prelates belong;
But the next robe for thee, was the white robe of Zion;
The next hymn thou heardst was the seraphim's song.

Here hush'd be my lay, for a far sweeter verse
Thy requiem I'll breathe in thy numbers alone;
For the bard's votive offering to hang on thy hearse,
Should be form'd of no language less sweet than thine own.

“Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,
Since God was thy refuge, thy ransom, thy guide:
He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee,
And death has no sting, since the Saviour has died.”