Classic Poem

He went not forth, as man too oft hath done,
Braving the ocean billows' wild uproar,
In hopes to gather, ere life's sands were run,
Yet added heaps of mammon's sordid ore;—
He went not forth earth's treasures to explore,
Where sleeps in sunless depths the diamond's ray;
Nor was he urged by love of classic lore,
His homage of idolatry to pay
Where ancient heroes fought, or poets pour'd their lay.

He left not home to cross the briny sea
With the proud conqueror's ambitious aim,
To wrong the guileless, to enslave the free,
And win a blood-stain'd wreath of doubtful fame,
By deeds unworthy of the Christian's name;
Nor to inspect with taste's inquiring eye
Temple and palace of gigantic frame,
Or pyramid up-soaring to the sky,
Trophies of art's proud power in ages long gone by.

Nor did his fancy nurse the gentle dream
Of nature's fond enthusiast; who, intense
In admiration of her charms, would seem
To worship her; forgetful of the offence
Given to her great and glorious Maker thence:
To him the woodland scenery's sylvan thrall,
The sunny vale, or cloud-capt eminence,
The brooklet's murmur, or the cataract's fall,
But waken'd thoughts of Him whose word had form'd them all.

He went abroad—a follower of the Lamb,
To spread the gospel's message far and wide;
In the dread power of Him, the great “I AM,”
In the meek spirit of the Crucified;
With unction from the Holy Ghost supplied,—
To war with error, ignorance, and sin,
To exalt humility, to humble pride,
To still the passions' stormy strife within;
Through wisdom from above immortal souls to win.

To publish unto those who sat in night,
And death's dark shadow, tidings of glad things;
How unto them the gospel's cheering light
Was risen, with life and healing on its wings;
How he, the Lord of glory, King of kings,
Their souls to save from sin's enthralling yoke,
Had left his throne, where harps of golden strings,
By seraphs touch'd, in heavenly music spoke;
And, coming down to earth, the chain of Satan broke.

How Christ for man upon the cross had died,
And pour'd His blood to cleanse their guilt away;
That, plunged beneath its sin-effacing tide,
Their spirits made no more the spoiler's prey,
Might stand before Him clothed in white array,
The Saviour's ransom'd and redeem'd among,
Who worship in his presence night and day,
And join in that “innumerable throng”
Whose voice is as the voice of many waters strong.

Such was his errand. What though he might fare
Year after year, along a foreign strand,
A “lonely pilgrim, as his fathers were;”—
He trusted still his Master's guiding hand,
And still he felt his humble faith expand—
That He who sent him forth would ever prove
A rock of shadow in the weary land;
And give him, in the riches of his love,
To drink the way-side brook, and comfort from above.

Thus did he journey on from day to day,
'Mid savage tribes, a Missionary mild,
Teaching and preaching Jesus, until they,
First by his meek benevolence beguiled,
Then by a mightier spirit, undefiled
With aught of human weakness, touch'd and won,
Were to their heavenly Father reconciled:
And, through his well-beloved and glorious Son,
To them God's kingdom came, by them his will was done.

Then through the influence of redeeming grace,
Whose might can even human wildness tame,
The savage soften'd, and the savage place
A scene of blessedness and love became:
And there, where bloody rites and deeds of shame,
Under religion's name, were done before,
Now, blessed change!—Jehovah's holy name—
His Son's—the Comforter's—along the shore
In sounds of praise and prayer the wandering breezes bore.

But what became of him, that lonely one,
Who thus went forth, commission'd from on high?
He, when he saw his work of love was done,
Felt also that his rest was drawing nigh;
And though it woke perchance a transient sigh
Of natural regret, to think that he
Should far from home and friends an exile die,—
Yet could he humbly pray on bended knee,
“Thy will, O God! not mine, accomplish'd be.”

Beneath a palm tree, by the house of prayer,
Upon a bright and tranquil summer eve,
He feebly sat; and round him gather'd there
The little flock he was so soon to leave:
With reverent affection did they cleave
About him—men and women, young and old,
With artless sorrow seem'd alike to grieve
That he who led and kept them in the fold
Must quit them, even for the heav'n of which he told.

They sang a hymn of thanks and praise to God;
And while its echoes floated yet in air,
Their feeble pastor, kneeling on the sod,
For them, and for himself, pour'd forth in prayer
His wishes, hopes, affections, thanks, and care:—
Rising, with grateful heart he look'd around,
And when he saw that each and all were there
To whom his spirit was so strongly bound,
His blessing he pronounced, with low and falt'ring sound.

They bore him home unto his lowly cot,
And laid the dying saint upon his bed;
No mark of kind attention they forgot
Toward him who long their hungry souls had fed:
And when life's lingering spark at last was fled,
They mourn'd for him with many a simple tear,
Such as for pious parent should be shed:
And taught their children ever to revere
The memory of one so holy and so dear.

They buried him beneath the lofty palm
Where last in prayer his dying charge he gave;
While through the leaves the breezes whisper'd calm,
Mixt with the murmur of the distant wave:
And when, in after-years, the white man's grave,
With its moss'd stone, beside old Ocean's brim,
They pointed out to strangers, each would crave
In broken speech, with eyes by tears made dim,
That as he follow'd Christ, so they might follow him.