Poems (Edwards)/The Dying Missionary
THE DYING MISSIONARY.
Silently he layWith his dark eyes closed softly, and the tears,The warm tears pressed through the silken fringeOf their fast drooping lids. Upon his cheekLife's parting light was lingering, like the raysOf waning twilight. And his brow, though calm,Was pale and cold, beneath the dew of death.The breeze came through the lattice, bringing inThe breath of summer flowers, and the heartOf the lone sufferer thrilled with joy intense,As lightly o'er his marble brow it strayed,And lifted the dark curls that clustered there. To his home,—The bright home of his infancy, his thoughts,Like swift birds had been wandering, and his eyesBeamed with a holy lustre, as he lookedUpon the summer blossoms sweet, that threw Their fragrance in his chamber. And his smileGrew brighter, and still brighter as the sunCast his last lingering beam upon his brow,And on the trembling curtain, which betrayed,By its slight motion, that the beating heartWas struggling hard for freedom. "Home, sweet home,"He murmured soft.and slowly, "I would layThis throbbing brow upon my mother's breast,And thus go home rejoicing. But the willOf Heaven has not so ordered. I must dieFar from my home and country—far from allThe friends who blessed my boyhood—I go toMy heavenly home with gladness, like a birdRejoicing in its freedom. I have doneThe work that God appointed me to do;Have finished all my labor—all my toil;The battle's fought,—the victory almost won;And angels gather round me, whispering soft,Come home, come home, thou faithful servant come,Thy Father's house is ready. Enter in,And live with him forever." ——— It was night,The pale moon trembled in the dewy skies,And twinkling stars shone brightly, and the windsBreathed gently through the vine leaves, and the birds,The lonely night-birds, fluttered on soft wingsAround a faithful and a holy band,—A band of new-made christians, as they bore,With solemn chant, and slow and measured tread,Their voiceless teacher through the solemn wood,And laid him in the silent earth. The leaves,The quivering leaves, bent over his lone grave,Like trembling mourners. And the sighing winds,With pensive steps, stole round him as he slept,"The sleep that knows no waking."