DEATH OF A YOUNG MAN DEVOTED TO MISSIONS.
Thou wert a musing student o'er thy book
When first I saw thee. Yet the eagle's wing
Soar'd not more duly sunward, than thy mind
From cliff to cliff of knowledge urged its way,
Kindling and glorying at the proud pursuit.
A ripe, rare spirit wrought within thy form
Of boyish beauty.
Then thy glance grew deep,
Feeding on secret, solitary thought
With speechless joy. For thou didst hear that voice
From voiceless nature, in the wind that swept
Around thy student's chamber, in the stream
Freshening the foliage of yon college grove,
And in the whisper of the lone wild flower,
Which none but poets hear. Thy waking lyre,
Sweet son of song, won thee warm brotherhood
From many a loving heart.
Yet not the realm
Of ancient learning, throng'd with classic shapes,
Nor rose-wreath'd poesy's enchanting bowers,
Contented thee.
Thy soul had higher aims,
And from Castalian waters meekly turn'd
To the pure rill that kiss'd the Saviour's feet:
And ever o'er its hour of lonely thought
