DEATH OF A MISSIONARY TO LIBERIA.
There is a sigh from Niger's sable realm,
A voice of Afric's weeping. One hath fallen,
Who pitched his tent on far Liberia's sands,
And with the fervour of unresting love
Did warn her children to a Saviour's arms.
Alone he fell—that heart so richly filled
With all affection's imagery—fair scenes
Of home and brotherhood—so strongly moved
To pour the promptings of its seraph-zeal
In boundless confidence, and so replete
With tender memory of its buried joys,
That 'mid their hallowed tombs it fain had slept,
Did in its stranger-solitude endure
The long death-struggle and sink down to rest.
Say ye alone he fell? It was not so.
There was a hovering of celestial wings
Around his lowly couch, a solemn sound
Of stricken harps, such as around God's throne
Make music night and day. He might not tell
Of that high music, for his lip was sealed,
And his eye closed. And so, ye say—he died,
But all the glorious company of Heaven
Do say—he lives, and that your brief farewell,
Uttered in tears, was but the prelude-tone
Of the full welcome of eternity.