DEATH OF A MISSIONARY.
Drowned at a ford of the Kaskaskia, in the state of Illinois.
Cold sweep the waters o'er thee. Thou hast found,
'Mid all the ardour of thy youthful zeal
And self-devotion to thy Master's cause,
An unexpected bed. The ice-swoln tides
Of the Kaskaskia shall no more resound
To the wild struggles of thy failing steed
In that deep plunge which gave thy soul to God.
Say, 'mid thy journeyings o'er the snow-clad waste
Of yon lone prairie, on that fearful day,
When death was by thy side, where dwelt thy thought?
Upon thy angel mission, or the scenes
Of thy loved home, with all its sheltering trees
And tuneful sound of waters?
Didst thou hope,
When Heaven's pure seed should blossom in the soil
Of the far Illinois, again to sit
Around that fire-side and recount thy toils,
And mingle prayers with those who fondly nursed
Thy tender infancy? Now there are tears
In that abode, whene'er thy cherished name
Breaks from the trembling lip. Oh! ye who mourn
With hoary temples o'er the smitten son,
Slain in his Saviour's service, know that pain
Shall never vex him more. Peril and change,
And winter's blast, and summer's sultry ray,
And sinful snare, what are they now to him
But dim-remembered names. If 't were so sweet
To have a son on earth, where every ill
Might point a sword against his heart, and pierce
Your own through his, are ye not doubly blest
To have a son in Heaven?