SONNET,
ON THE MISSIONARY SMITH.
There is no tomb for thee, thou martyred one!
Heroes have laurels, sages have then fame,
But thine is an unheard, unhonoured name;
Thou art gone down unto thy grave unknown;
Yet Heaven hath registered thy deeds of love,
Thy glorious sacrifice his eye hath seen,
Whose light around thy path hath ever been,
To raise thy soul all human fear above.
The oppressor triumphs—o'er the trembling slave
He now exults—but there shall come a day,
Shall sweep his pride from the bright heaven away;
And then thy blood shall loud for judgment crave!
And thou stand calmly in that awful hour,
Which flashes vengeance on the tyrant's power.
Heroes have laurels, sages have then fame,
But thine is an unheard, unhonoured name;
Thou art gone down unto thy grave unknown;
Yet Heaven hath registered thy deeds of love,
Thy glorious sacrifice his eye hath seen,
Whose light around thy path hath ever been,
To raise thy soul all human fear above.
The oppressor triumphs—o'er the trembling slave
He now exults—but there shall come a day,
Shall sweep his pride from the bright heaven away;
And then thy blood shall loud for judgment crave!
And thou stand calmly in that awful hour,
Which flashes vengeance on the tyrant's power.