Though on the climax of our joy, stern Death
Should steal unlocked for, as the lightning flash
Rendeth the summer-cloud.
But now, adieu,
My sainted guide. The midnight hour doth warn
Me from thy cherished pages, though methinks
The beauty of thy presence and thy voice,
Whose tones, melodious, charmed a listening throng,
Still linger near. It is not meet for us
To call thee brother, we who dwell in clay,
And find the impress of the earth so strong
Upon our purest gold.
Spirit of bliss!
Who twin'st thyself around the living heart
By holiest memories, my prayer this night
Shall be a hymn of gratitude for thee.
PARTING HYMN OF MISSIONARIES TO BURMAH.
Native land! in summer smiling,
Hill and valley, grove and stream,
Home! whose nameless charms beguiling
Peaceful lull'd our infant dream,
Haunts! through which our childhood hasted,
Where the earliest wild-flowers grew,
Church! where God's free grace we tasted,
Gems of memory's wealth,—adieu!
