University of Virginia Library

So Asia hath thy dust, thou who wert born
Amid my own wild hillocks, where the voice
Of falling waters and of gentle gales
Mingle their music. How thy soft dark eye,
Thy graceful form, thy soul-illumined smile,
Gleam forth upon me when I muse at eve,
Mid the bright imagery of earliest years.

Hear I the murmur'd echo of thy name
From yon poor forest race? 'Tis meet for them
To hoard thy memory as a blessed star,
For thou didst seek their lowly homes, and tell
Their sad-brow'd children of a Saviour's love,
And of a clime where no oppressor comes.
Cold winter found thee there, and summer's heat,
With zeal unblenching. Though perchance the sneer
Might curl some worldling's lip, 'twas not for thee
To note its language, or to scorn the soul
Of the neglected Indian, or to tread
Upon the ashes of his buried kings
As on a loathsome weed.
Thine own fair halls
Lured thee in vain, until the hallow'd church
Rear'd its light dome among them, and the voice
Of a devoted shepherd, day by day,
Call'd back those wanderers to the sheltering fold
Of a Redeemer's righteousness.
And then
Thy path was on the waters, and thy hand
Close clasp'd in his who bore so fearless forth
The glorious Gospel to those ancient climes
Which in the darkness and the shade of death
Benighted dwell.
Strong ties detain'd thee here:
Home—father—sightless mother—sister dear—
Brothers and tender friends—a full array
Of hope and bliss. But what were those to thee,
Who on God's altar laid the thought of self?
What were such joys to thee, if duty bade
Their crucifixion?
Oh! Jerusalem!
Jerusalem! Say, do I see thee there?
Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod,
Or fervent kneeling where his prayer arose,
All night on Olivet? or with meek hand
Culling from pure Siloam's marge a flower,
Whose tender leaflets drink as fresh a dew
As when unhumbled Judah wore the crown
Of queenly beauty? or with earnest eye
Exploring where the shepherd-minstrel kept
His father's flock, before the cares that lodge
Within the thorn-wreath'd circlet of a king
Had turn'd his temples gray? or with sweet smile
Reposing, wearied, in thy simple tent
By turbid Jordan and the bitter wave
Of the Asphaltites?
Back to thy place
Amid the Syrian vales, to thy loved toils
For the forsaken Druses, to the throng
Of heathen babes, who on thine accents hang
As on a mother's; for the time is short.
Perils upon the waters wait for thee,
And then another Jordan, from whose flood
Is no return.
But thou, with lip so pale,
Didst take the song of triumph, and go down
Alone and fearless through its depths profound.
Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad,
Even to thy latest gasp.
Therefore the grief
Born at thy grave is not like other grief.
Tears mix with joy. We praise our God for thee.