Poems (Hornblower)/The Missionary
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THE MISSIONARY.
I saw a mighty throng around me stand,
With unenlightened hearts, and joyless eyes,
Walking in darkness towards that distant land,
Where wait their hidden future destinies.
Hearts had they, hut untouched with living fire,
To melt at pity, or at virtue glow,
For earthly gain was all their low desire;
The pure delight that nobler joys bestow,
Was hidden from their gaze. The immortal mind
Was famishing within them: it was there,
With all its faculties divine and fair,
Untouched, uncultivated, unrefined.
Pitying, I saw—and be it mine, I cried,
From those benighted hearts to lift the veil,
To see them taught, instructed, purified;
Patient, the dawn of earliest hope to hail;
As plants unfold beneath the breath of heaven,
To raise their spirits with the Eternal trust;
And lead them, penitent, reformed, forgiven,
Beyond the sordid visions of the dust,
To heaven and heavenly joys:—when lo! a voice
Came to me—Thou who pitiest thus the lost,
And fain wouldst hid the broken heart rejoice,
Ere this great task thou takest, count the cost.
With untired patience canst thou sow the seed,
Though thou thyself the harvest mayst not reap?
And when for sin thy inmost heart doth bleed,
A meek, forgiving spirit, canst thou keep;
Witness the scene of cruelty and strife,
With an unchanging faith and stedfast eye,
And pour o'er all the griefs and cares of life
A Christian hope, and calm benignity;
Lead childhood's little footsteps, day by day,
Unto the paths divine, and weary not;
And by the dying sinner bend to pray,
In sympathy with even the outcast's lot?
Indifference canst thou meet, yet turn again,
The long, the hopeless conflict to revive,
And think a soul renewed the noblest gain
That time, with all his trophies, ere could give?
Canst thou thus labour, not by sight, but faith,
And on the distant waters cast thy bread?
Canst thou be faithful even unto death;
Unwavering, undismayed, unconquered?
Oh! not for me, I cried, this task divine,
Which asks a Howard or a Romilly;
And the presumptuous vision I resign,
The harvest wait from other hands to see.
Yet, take thy task, the voice again replied,
The feeblest instruments can do his will;
And that one talent, which thou mayst not hide,
May even yet thy Master's work fulfil.
With unenlightened hearts, and joyless eyes,
Walking in darkness towards that distant land,
Where wait their hidden future destinies.
Hearts had they, hut untouched with living fire,
To melt at pity, or at virtue glow,
For earthly gain was all their low desire;
The pure delight that nobler joys bestow,
Was hidden from their gaze. The immortal mind
Was famishing within them: it was there,
With all its faculties divine and fair,
Untouched, uncultivated, unrefined.
Pitying, I saw—and be it mine, I cried,
From those benighted hearts to lift the veil,
To see them taught, instructed, purified;
Patient, the dawn of earliest hope to hail;
As plants unfold beneath the breath of heaven,
To raise their spirits with the Eternal trust;
And lead them, penitent, reformed, forgiven,
Beyond the sordid visions of the dust,
To heaven and heavenly joys:—when lo! a voice
Came to me—Thou who pitiest thus the lost,
And fain wouldst hid the broken heart rejoice,
Ere this great task thou takest, count the cost.
With untired patience canst thou sow the seed,
Though thou thyself the harvest mayst not reap?
And when for sin thy inmost heart doth bleed,
A meek, forgiving spirit, canst thou keep;
Witness the scene of cruelty and strife,
With an unchanging faith and stedfast eye,
And pour o'er all the griefs and cares of life
A Christian hope, and calm benignity;
Lead childhood's little footsteps, day by day,
Unto the paths divine, and weary not;
And by the dying sinner bend to pray,
In sympathy with even the outcast's lot?
Indifference canst thou meet, yet turn again,
The long, the hopeless conflict to revive,
And think a soul renewed the noblest gain
That time, with all his trophies, ere could give?
Canst thou thus labour, not by sight, but faith,
And on the distant waters cast thy bread?
Canst thou be faithful even unto death;
Unwavering, undismayed, unconquered?
Oh! not for me, I cried, this task divine,
Which asks a Howard or a Romilly;
And the presumptuous vision I resign,
The harvest wait from other hands to see.
Yet, take thy task, the voice again replied,
The feeblest instruments can do his will;
And that one talent, which thou mayst not hide,
May even yet thy Master's work fulfil.