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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,
To tell of nations overthrown,
Of armies crushed, or ships in pride,
Buried by navies in the tide.

I would not laud the valiant dead,
Who vainly for ambition bled;
Nor pledge the loftiest demi-god,
That ever bathed in seas of blood.

The clarion cry to me doth tell
Of all that's blessedness, the knell;
Yon standards, sprinkled o'er the plain,
Wave brightly, 'tis to fold the slain!

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I love thee, 0, my natal land,
I love thy sons, a brother band;
Thy rocks and hills and vales, to me,
Are temples of the truly free.

Long be they such, and death to him
That seeks thy altar's light to dim;

Chastisement to the footstep prest
Rudely upon thy virgin breast.

Yet never would I speed thee on
To bootless fight, nor, warfare won,
Invoke for thee undying fame,
Or deck with coronals thy name.

Hateful, who leads his hosts to die
Where war-drums roll and banners fly;
As hateful, who would honour heal,
Base coward-with the duel's steel.

Cursed be the song whose sparkling cheer
Is stolen from the orphan's tear;
Perish your laurels, O ye brave!
They bourgeon only on the grave.

O thou, whose name, when heaven stood still
To listen, woke on Judah's hill—*
Come, and with gladness in thy train
Visit a weeping world again.

* On earth, Peace, Good will to men.-Song of the Angels.



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;
There yet are fadeless wreaths to weave.

And lofty conquests to be won.
More mothers, taught aright to pray,

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,
While warbling hymns go forth in tones

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.

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