The Snow-Drop | Page 8

I'd rest in the shade of that tree, growing near,
Which yields its rich
fruit every month in the year;
Its leaves are so healing, no sickness
comes there,
To mar the new song as it floats through the air.
I think of the rest in those regions above,--
My soul spreads her
pinions and soars like a dove,--
Yet I'm drawn back to earth by one
tender tie,
Which oft clogs my wings;--then, oh! how can I fly!
I think of New England, my fair native land,
The friends of my
childhood, that dear faithful band,
Who're waiting to greet me with

hearts full of love,
Not knowing my bark will cast anchor above.
To see me, my kindred impatiently wait,--
I think of those dear
ones,--my soul's in a strait,--
My father, my mother, my dear orphan
son,--
Oh Lord, decide for me, let thy will be done'
JUDSON'S GRAVE.
Dear shepherd of the Burman sheep,
Where have they laid thee down
to sleep?
Beside thy long lamented Ann,
Or 'midst thy charge at
Aracan?
Or does that palm tree o'er thee wave,
Which shadows thy
dear Sarah's grave?
I pause, and drop the silent tear,--
In mournful
tones, a voice I hear,
Exclaiming, "Earth affords no space
For
Judson's last calm resting place."
Ye spicy groves, perfume each
breeze
That steals along the Indian seas,--
For we have felt a pang
of woe,
Since, plunged in awful depths below,
Our much lamented
Judson's clay,
Must 'neath its rolling billows lay,
Where monsters
of the ocean creep,
'Round him o'er whom the nations weep.
No
stone directs the stranger's eye
To where his sacred relics lie,
Nor
can the weeping Burmans come
To shed their tears around his tomb.

And when their work on earth is done,
No mourning daughter, wife,
or son
Can rest from toil the weary head,
Beside him in his ocean
bed.
But while we shrink from such a grave,
He rests as sweetly
'neath the wave
As though in Auburn's bowers he lay,
Where
sunbeams through green branches play,
And roses, wet with tear
drops, bloom
Around th' unconscious sleeper's tomb.
Let no rude
wind, no angry storm,
The ocean's heaving breast deform,--
'Tis
hallowed as dear Judson's bed,

Until the sea gives up its dead.

Though mortals weep with fond regret,
The Lord that spot will ne'er
forget;
He will a faithful record keep,--
He knows where all his
children sleep.
Though monsters should that form devour,
'Twill
rise in beauty, strength and power;
That voice, which rends the tombs
and graves,
Will sound through all the ocean caves;
Then 'roused by
heaven's eternal King,
He'll tune his golden harp and sing;
While,

quick as thought, to join the song,
Will Burman converts round him
throng,
And on that bright auspicious morn,
Like jewels his rich
crown adorn.
LINES
SUGGESTED BY A REMARK MADE BY THE REV.
WINTHROP
MORSE, WHILE ADDRESSING A
CONGREGATION ASSEMBLED
ON THE BANKS OF THE
SANDY RIVER, UPON A BAPTISMAL OCCASION.
The writer of the following, though but a child, was present, and, for
the first time, witnessed the administration of that solemn ordinance.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
God's faithful servant cried,
As he
addressed the multitude
That thronged the water's side.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
He said with tearful eye,--
Then come,
dear friends, and choose the path
That leads to joys on high.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
The convert seemed to say,--
I'll trace
the path my Savior marked,
Though through these waves it lay.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
Was echoed from the stream,
Like me
your days will swiftly glide,
Or like a fleeting dream.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
The Holy Spirit said,--
And sweetly
whispered to the soul,
"I'll be thy heavenly guide."
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"
That sentence reached my heart,
I
trembled lest I there should hear
That awful word, "depart."
Yes, trav'ling to eternity,
While overwhelmed with guilt,--
Afraid
that Jesus' pard'ning love,
By me would ne'er be felt.
"We're trav'ling to eternity,"--
It rings upon my ear;
The hills which

echoed back that sound,
Still to my heart are dear.
"We're traveling to eternity,"
Said that dear faithful friend,
Whose
image in my mem'ry lives,
And will, till life shall end.
"We're traveling to eternity,"
Soon, soon we there shall meet,
And
is my deathless soul prepared,
That friend in heaven to greet?
THE INQUIRY.
Am I a Christian far astray,
And slumb'ring on enchanted ground;

Or did my feet ne'er find the way,
Which Bunyan's humble pilgrim
found?
Whence was that strange delight I felt?
Why did the gospel charm my
ear?
What caused this stubborn heart to melt?
Why was the Savior's
name so dear?
Why was the fountain of his blood,
So precious in my mental eye?

Why did such deep sensations crowd
Around the scene on Calvary?
Why did the Godhead shine so bright?
Why did I love the garb he
wore,
Alike, when justice claimed his right,
And when sweet
mercy's name he bore?
Did airy phantoms fill my brain?--
Did vain delusions cheat my
soul?--
Must those bright hopes prove false and vain?
And must I
miss the heavenly goal?

"There is joy in Heaven, in the presence of the angels, over one sinner
that repenteth."--Scripture.
What's this that breaks upon my ear?
Music sweet;
From golden
harps, methinks I hear
Glorious strains!
"There's joy in Heaven,"
the angels sing,
"A soul repents and owns our King;"
From Heaven

to earth