A DEED OF DARKNESS.
[_]
The body of the Missionary, John Smith, (who died February
6. 1824, in prison, under sentence of death by a
court-martial, in Demerara,) was ordered to be buried
secretly at night; and no person, not even his widow, was
allowed to follow the corpse. Mrs. Smith, however, and
her friend Mrs. Elliott, accompanied by a free Negro,
carrying a lantern, repaired beforehand to the spot where
a grave had been dug, and there they awaited the interment,
which took place accordingly. His Majesty's pardon,
annulling the condemnation, is said to have arrived on the
day of the unfortunate Missionary's death, from the rigours
of confinement, in a tropical climate, and under the slow
pains of an inveterate malady, previously afflicting him.
Come down in thy profoundest gloom,
Without one vagrant fire-fly's light,
Beneath thine ebon arch entomb
Earth from the gaze of heaven, O Night!
A deed of darkness must be done;
Put out the moon, hold back the sun.
Are these the criminals that flee
Like deeper shadows through the shade?
A flickering lamp, from tree to tree,
Betrays their path along the glade,
Led by a Negro;—now they stand,
Two trembling women, hand in hand.
A grave, an open grave, appears;
O'er this in agony they bend,
Wet the fresh turf with bitter tears;
Sighs following sighs their bosoms rend:
These are not murderers!—these have known
Grief more bereaving than their own.
Oft through the gloom their straining eyes
Look forth for what they fear to meet:
It comes; they catch a glimpse; it flies:
Quick-glancing lights, slow-trampling feet,
Amidst the cane-crops,—seen, heard, gone,—
Return,—and in dead-march move on.
A stern procession!—gleaming arms
And spectral countenances dart,
By the red torch-flame, wild alarms
And withering pangs through either heart;
A corpse amidst the group is borne,
A prisoner's corpse who died last morn.
Not by the slave-lord's justice slain,
Who doom'd him to a traitor's death;
While royal mercy sped in vain
O'er land and sea to save his breath;—
No; the frail life that warm'd this clay
Man could not give nor take away.
His vengeance and his grace alike
Were impotent to spare or kill;—
He may not lift the sword to strike,
Nor turn its edge aside, at will;
Here, by one sovereign act and deed,
God cancell'd all that man decreed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
That corpse is to the grave consign'd;
The scene departs:—this buried trust
The Judge of quick and dead shall find,
When things which Time and Death have seal'd
Shall be in flaming fire reveal'd.
The fire shall try Thee, then, like gold,
Prisoner of hope!—await the test;
And O! when truth alone is told,
Be thy clear innocence confess'd!
The fire shall try thy foes;—may they
Find mercy in that dreadful day!
