Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Missionary
The Missionary.
He left his native land, and far away Across the waters sought a world unknown,Though well he knew that he in vain might stray In search of one as lovely as his own.
He left his home, around whose humble hearth His parents, kindred, all he valued, smiled—Friends who had known and loved him from his birth, And who still loved him as a favourite child.
He left the scenes by youthful hopes endeared— The woods, the streams that soothed his infant ear,The plants, the trees, that he himself had reared, And every charm to love and fancy dear.
All these he left, with sad but willing heart, Though unallured by honours, wealth, or fame;In them not even his wishes claimed a part, And the world knew not of his very name.
Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray? 'Twas love!—but not such love as worldlings own,That often smiles its sweetest to betray, And stabs the breast that offered it a throne.
'Twas love to God! and love to all mankind! His Master hade the obedient servant go,And try if he in distant realms could find Some, who His name and saving grace would know.
'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears His aged mother at their parting shed;'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears, And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.
'Twas this that made his father calmly bear A godly sorrow, deep, but undismayed—And bade him humbly ask of God, in prayer. His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.
And when he rose to bless, and wish him well, And bent a head with age and sorrow grey,Even while he breathed a fond and last farewell, Half-sad, half-joyful, dashed his tears away.
"And go," he said, "though I, with mortal eyes, Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;But, when from earth to heaven our spirits rise, The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.
"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal From eyes that see the course thou hast to run;And God forgive me if I wrongly feel— Like Abraham called to sacrifice his son."
And he is gone! With ardent steps he prest Across the hills, to where the vessel lay,And soon, I ween, upon the ocean's breast, They saw the white sails bearing him away.
And did he go unfriended—poor—alone? Did none of those who, in a favoured landThe shelter of the gospel-tree had known, Desire to see its peaceful shades expand?
'Tis not for me to answer questions here: Let every heart its own responses give;And all, to whom their fellow-men are dear, Bestow the bread by which their souls may live.