FAREWELL OF A MISSIONARY TO AFRICA, AT THE GRAVE OF HIS WIFE AND CHILD.
Once more, 'neath Autumn's moaning blast,
I seek thy narrow bed,
And is this gush of tears the last,
I o'er this turf must shed?
Seasons may change, and years depart,
Yet none shall here recline
To twine thy memory round his heart
With such a love as mine.
Bound to a dark and heathen clime
For my Redeemer's sake,
What tides of sympathy sublime
At thy loved image wake.
Thy tender care, thy fearless trust,
Thy fond, confiding tone,—
Yet what avails,—since thou art dust,
And I am all alone.
There too, sweet infant, slumbering nigh,
How beautiful wert thou,
Thy mother's spirit in thine eye,
Her smile upon thy brow,
A little while, thy rose-bud light
On my lone path was shed,
A little while,—there came a blight,
And thou art of the dead.
