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Yet live! for thou must errand bring
draw Unto the new-discovered King
Who gives the islands law.
Up! seek thee OBOOKIAH’s land,
There's toil, and men are few; Dispersed is superstition's band,
And broke the fell tabu.
Away-wrung out is Pe-le's cup,
Her altar's light is dim; And where her song and shout went up,
Thou’lt hear the children's hymn.
Up both! and from this infant soil
This land, but late possest, Go forth to oriental climes,
The first fruits of the West.
Exil'd from us for Jesus' sake,
Ere yet, for time, ye part,
The farewell of the heart.
Yet how may she that farewell give?
This hour live all the past-
Take that sad look, the last?
Ye may not watch her final pang
Who watched your boyhood's bloom; That aged sire-ye may not lay
His gray hairs in the tomb.
Enough, enough, a hand unseen,
Waves onward to the prize; They know that their Redeemer lives,
And this may well suffice.
'Tis done-in yon horizon now,
Where she sails on, a speck;
Is wafted o'er that deck.
Propitious breezes fill the sails!
O God of mercy, keep
In stateliness the deep;
Bearing from hearth and sepulchre,
Those holy names and high-The men that hear but to obey
The Macedonian cry;
That calls to perils, calls afar
To suffering, shame and loss; Yet points to that immortal star,
Which shines above the cross.
THE BURMAN'S QUESTION.
“Do the Disciples in America drink Spirits?'-Wade's Speech.
Men, crossing the blue wave, have told
To Burmah of the God that first Spake out this starry world of old,
To whom the stars and worlds are dust.
His voice is to us—we obey,
Nor fear contempt or shame, or loss; Once proudly vile, we joy to lay
Glory and pride beneath the cross.
We'll bear reproaches for His sake,
Who for poor Burmans died; and we Will freely persecution take,
For Him, whose blood hath stained the tree.
Yet the reproach how may we meet,
That spots religion's lovely robe, And lifts an idol to the seat
Of Him that grasps and guides the globe?
For far beyond the Indian sea,
Where heaven lets down unwonted light, His purchased followers give the knee
Unto the spirit-fiend of night.
Our hearts for God!-yet while we doubt
And fear, like those, to yield him up,
Around us rings the scornful shout,
“Do yon disciples kiss the cup?"
“Yea, do yon Christians fondly reach
The goblet to a sealed lip;
What Paganism may not sip?”
Men of the clime where truth has trod,
Earth’s glittering falsehood to condemn; Tell us!—seek they another God,
Is not Jehovah help to them?
OBEY YOUR PARENTS.
The tale here versified, is from Mrs. Virginia Cary's letters.
Two brothers, once, of merry mood,
Were sporting in their simple play; When chafed and furious from the wood,
A Lion roared against his prey.
Between them and the help they claimed,
Was interposed a lofty wall;
It is the anxious father's call:
“0, children, haste! ye shall not fail
“ Folly” said one, “for us to scale
Yon stones, which men can scarce ascend.
“ See you not that so rough the path,
So high the wall, its topmost stone Ere we could gain, the beast, in wrath
Might rend and break us bone by bone?”
“I,” said the other, come what may,
Will not despise our father's call; 'Tis safest always to obey,
I'll strive to climb yon lofty wall."
He ran, and saw, when drawing nigh,
A ladder reaching from its height; Safe now, he turned a wistful eye,
His mangled brother met his sight.
SPIRIT! arise—'tis blest to go,
When skiey visions call away;
There gushes out Redemption's ray.
Tuou of the flaming steeds and car!
We tremble at our father's call; And, weeping, watch his flight afar,
And see the ungathered mantle fall.