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200

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND

Nay, murmur not, Man! like th' halcyon thou

Thy nest on the billow hast made :

Thou hast trusted the calm of the summer, and now
The tempest thy trust has betray'd.

Go, build on the rock that looks down on the shock

Of the elements combating free, Where no clouds part thine eye

sky

and the ever bright

No woes, thy Creator and thee!

HENRY THOMSON.

On the Death of a Friend.

FRIEND after friend departs:
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That finds not here an end:
Were this frail world our final rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of Time,

Beyond the reign of Death,

There surely is some blessèd clime

Where life is not a breath;
Nor Life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expire.

!

THE MISSIONARY.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown;
A long eternity of love,

Form'd for the good alone:
And faith beholds the dying, here,
Translated to that glorious sphere!

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are pass'd away :

As morning high and higher shines,
To pure and perfect day:

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

201

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

The Missionary.

"He was the first that ever bore
Glad tidings to that desert shore."

My heart goes with thee, dauntless man,
Freely as thou dost hie

To sojourn with some barbarous clan,

For them to toil or die.

Fondly our spirits to our own

Cling, nor to part allow;

Thine to some land forlorn has flown

We turn-and where art thou?

202

THE MISSIONARY.

Thou climb'st the vessel's lofty side:
Numbers are gathering there-
The youthful warrior in his pride,
The merchant in his care,

Hearts which for knowledge track the seas.
Spirits which lightly rove
Glad as the billows and the breeze,
And thou the child of love.

A savage shore receives thy tread;
Companion thou hast none;

The wild boughs wave above thy head,
Yet still thou journey'st on,
Threading the tangled wild wood drear,
Piercing the mountain glen,

Till wearily thou drawest near
The haunts of lonely men.

Strange is thine aspect to their eyes;
Strange is thy foreign speech:
And wild and strong is their surprise
At marvels thou dost teach;
Thy strength alone is in thy words,
Yet armies could not bow

The spirit of those barbarous hordes
So readily as thou.

But oh! thy heart, thou home-sick man,

With saddest thoughts runs o'er,

Sitting, as fades the evening wan,

Silently at thy door,

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the wild,

Yet that

poor hut upon

A stone beneath the tree,

And souls to heaven's love reconciled

These are enough for thee!

W. HOWITT.

Tyre.

IN thought, I saw the palace-domes of Tyre;
The gorgeous treasures of her merchandise;
All her proud people in their brave attire,
Thronging her streets for sport or sacrifice.
I saw the precious stones and spiceries;
The singing girl with flower-wreath'd instrument;
And slaves, whose beauty ask'da monarch's price.
Forth from all lands all nations to her went,
And kings to her on embassy were sent.
I saw, with gilded prow and silken sail,
Her ships that of the sea had government :
O gallant ships, 'gainst you what might prevail!
She stood upon her rock, and in her pride
Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied.

I look'd again-I saw a lonely shore,

A rock amid the waters, and a waste
Of trackless sand: I heard the black seas roar,

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And winds that rose in gusty haste.

There was one scathed tree by storm defaced, Round which the sea-birds wheel'd with screaming

cry.

Ere long came on a traveller, slowly paced, Now east, now west he turn'd; with curious Like one perplex'd with an uncertainty,

Awhile he look'd upon the sea, and then Upon a book, as if it might supply

eye,

The things he lack'd: he read and gazed again; Yet, as if unbelief so on him wrought,

He might not deem this shore the shore he sought.

Again I saw him come:-'twas eventide;

The sun shone on the rock amid the sea; The winds were hush'd: the quiet billows sigh'd With a low swell: the birds wing'd silently Their evening flight around the scathed tree; The fisher safely put into the bay,

And push'd his boat ashore: then gather'd he His nets, and hastening up the rocky way, Spread them to catch the sun's warm evening ray.

I saw that stranger's eye gaze on the scene, "And this was Tyre!" said he, "how has decay Within her palaces a despot been!

Ruin and silence in her courts are met,

And on her city-rock the fisher spreads his net!"

MARY HOWITT.

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