The votary here must half unlearn
The accents of his mother-tongue;
Must dwell ’mid strangers, and must earn
Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung.
His words on hardened hearts must fall,
Harden'd till God’s appointed hour;
Yet he must wait, and watch o'er all,
Till hope grows faith, and prayer has power.
And many a grave neglected lies,
Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord;
Who perish'd ’neath the sultry skies,
Where first they preached that sacred word.
But not in vain—their toil was blest;
Life's dearest hope by them was won;
A blessing is upon their rest,
And on the work which they begun.
Yon city,* where our purer creedCawnpore
Was as a thing unnamed, unknown,
Has now a sense of deeper need,
Has now a place of prayer its own.
And many a darkened mind has light,
And many a stony heart has tears;
The morning breaking o’er that night,
So long upon those godless spheres.
Our prayers be with them—we who know
The value of a soul to save,
Must pray for those, who seek to show
The Heathen hope beyond the grave.
53
