—That marble lip no more can bless its foes,
But from the rack of martyrdom, the soul
Hath risen in radiance, o'er the strife of man.
HOME MISSIONS.
Turn thee to thine own broad waters,
Labor in thy native earth,
Call salvation's sons and daughters
From the clime that gave thee birth.
Here are pilgrim-souls benighted,
Here are evils to be slain,
Graces in their budding blighted,
Spirits bound in error's chain.
Raise the Gospel's glorious streamer
Where yon cloud-topp'd forest waves,
Follower of the meek Redeemer
Serve him 'mid thy fathers' graves.
"THIS IS NOT YOUR REST."
When Heaven's unerring pencil writes, on every pilgrim's breast,
Its passport to Time's changeful shore, "lo, this is not your rest,"
Why build ye towers, ye fleeting ones? why bowers of fragrance rear!
As if the self-deceiving soul might find its Eden here.
