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To God, that gave us joy for tears,
To whom our ransomed lives belong, To God, that chased away our fears,
We come with prayer and sound of song.
I ask no voice of trumpet tone,
I would not laud the valiant dead,
The clarion cry to me doth tell
I love thee, 0, my natal land,
Long be they such, and death to him
Chastisement to the footstep prest
Yet never would I speed thee on
Hateful, who leads his hosts to die
Cursed be the song whose sparkling cheer
O thou, whose name, when heaven stood still
* On earth, Peace, Good will to men.-Song of the Angels.
REV. ADONIRAM JUDSON,
MISSIONARY TO BURMAH.
The Baptist Board of Missions had passed a resolution, inviting Mr. Judson to visit the United States for the purpose of stirring up the churches to the great work of evangelizing and saving the world.
WELCOME to thee! long lapse of time
Hath come and glanced and gone between; Since thou for yonder idol clime,
A wanderer from our coasts wast seen.
Of toil and watchings nigh to death,
And bonds, we've heard, 'mid wrathful foes; And war's wild stir, where once the breath
Of worship, from thy Zayat rose.
We wept, when persecution's rod
Gave type to thee of Satan's hour; And joys gushed freely forth, when God
For succour, bared his arm of power.
Well hath he owned the men of toil,
-Foes to their ease, the friends of manWho gather souls, a precious spoil,
From Burmah and from Indostan.
The breezes thence have flung along,
Sweets, richer than their spices are; Hark to a voice !-'tis India's song
Her pagan sons are bowed in prayer.
Welcome to thee-thou wilt not leave
The god-like embassy undone;
And lofty conquests to be won.
Will point their lisping ones to Boodh No more,-but from the Pagoda
Will lead them to the Great and Good.
And, stilled some little orphan's moans,
Will it not lift its heart on high,
Rich as the beautiful Pali?*
Yet while Idolatry its bands
Links closer round the heir of thrall, Upon our ears in Christian lands
His far-off cries but faintly fall.
On these thy native shores to men
Who bask in beams of living light; Thou'lt tell of those beyond its ken
Of Burmah's millions wrapt in night.
And other pleaders thou wilt bring
The wan cheek and the sunken eye;
* A dialect of the Sanscrit, rich and harmonious, now a dead language. Malte Brun affirms that the Pali is the language of Religion.
Tokens, that round her memory cling,
Who fled before thee to the sky.
Whose smile illumed thy prison's gloom,
Whose noble spirit soothed thy care, Who kneels in yonder bowers of bloom,
With raiment bathed in glory there.
Welcome!--and Newell shall we greet?
And Hall?_forbear-they will not reck His lone return, whose eager feet
Once trod with theirs the mission deck.
Ah no-on them is shed the calm,
The heavenly sabbath of the just; Away, beneath the leafy palm
They sleep, and God beholds their dust.
Then on!-his joys cannot be dim,
Who, trusting, goes to seek the lost: O there are coronals for him,
Who toils for Christ, nor shuns the cost.