MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH.
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.
