 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE TWO MISSIONARIES.
In the pyramid's heavy shadows,
And by the Nile's deep flood,
They leaned on the arm of Jesus,
And preached to the multitude:
Where only the ostrich and parrot
Went by on the burning sands,
They builded to God an altar,
Lifting up holy hands.
And by the Nile's deep flood,
They leaned on the arm of Jesus,
And preached to the multitude:
Where only the ostrich and parrot
Went by on the burning sands,
They builded to God an altar,
Lifting up holy hands.
But even while kneeling lowly
At the foot of the cross to pray,
Eternity's shadows slowly
Stole over their pilgrim way:
And one, with the journey weary,
And faint with the spirit's strife,
Fell sweetly asleep in Jesus,
Hard by the gates of life.
At the foot of the cross to pray,
Eternity's shadows slowly
Stole over their pilgrim way:
And one, with the journey weary,
And faint with the spirit's strife,
Fell sweetly asleep in Jesus,
Hard by the gates of life.
Oh, not in Gethsemane's garden,
And not by Genesareth's wave,
The light, like a golden mantle,
O'erspreadeth his lowly grave;
But the bird of the burning desert
Goes by with a noiseless tread,
And the tent of the restless Arab
Is silently near him spread.
And not by Genesareth's wave,
The light, like a golden mantle,
O'erspreadeth his lowly grave;
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Goes by with a noiseless tread,
And the tent of the restless Arab
Is silently near him spread.
Oh, could we remember only,
Who shrink from the slightest ill,
His sorrows, who, bruised and lonely,
Wrought on in the vineyard still—
Surely the tale of sorrow
Would fall on the mourner's breast,
Hushing, like oil on the waters,
The troubled wave to rest.
Who shrink from the slightest ill,
His sorrows, who, bruised and lonely,
Wrought on in the vineyard still—
Surely the tale of sorrow
Would fall on the mourner's breast,
Hushing, like oil on the waters,
The troubled wave to rest.
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |