THE GREENLAND CONVERT.
229
Thou know'st not? Praise to God above!
The meek Moravian band,
With all their habitudes of love,
Have dared this fearful land:
Hast thou not heard how Greenland's wild,
Her everlasting snows,
Beneath their husbandry have smiled,
And blossom'd as the rose?
Their steps these saintly teachers turn'd
To yon sepulchral bed,
And o'er their buried convert mourn'd
As for a brother dead;
And there, with anthems' holy breath,
With prayers of heavenward trust,
They mark'd, as with a living wreath,
Poor Agusina's dust.
