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A great man in our Israel ?
Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet,
And in thy hand retaining yet
Across the Neva's cold morass
With winter's arrowy keenness pass ; Or, where the unwarning tropic gale Smote to the waves thy tattered sail, Or, where the noon-hour's fervid heat Against Tahiti's mountains beat ;
The same mysterious hand which gave
Deliverance upon land and wave,
Ladaga’s frozen surface o'er,
Of evening upon Eimeo's shore,
Hath given thee a grave !
His will be done,
Is not as ours !- 'T is well with thee!
“My Father careth still for me!” Called from thy hearth and home — from her,
The last bud on thy household tree,
In duty and in love to thee,
Feeble with years and worn with pain,
To seek our distant land again, Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing The things which should befall thee here,
Whether for labor or for death, In child-like trust serenely going
To that last trial of thy faith !
Oh, far away,
On that dark waste which Balboa saw
He bent his mailed knee in awe ;
And Honolulu's silver bay,
And taro-plains of Tooboonai,
Were strengthened and refreshed by thine, For, blessed by our Father's hand,
Was thy deep love and tender care,
Thy ministry and fervent prayer —
And they who drew
Of prayerful waiting, hushed and deep,
That He who bade the islands keep Silence before Him, might renew
Their strength with His unslumbering power, They too shall mourn that thou art gone,
That never more thy aged lip
Seals of thy true apostleship. · And, if the brightest diadem,
Whose gems of glory purely burn
Around the ransomed ones in bliss,
Who here, through toil and sorrow, turn
Many to righteousness, — May we not think of thee, as wearing That star-like crown of light, and bearing, Amidst Heaven's white and blissful band, The fadeless palm-branch in thy hand ; And joining with a seraph's tongue In that new song the elders sung, Ascribing to its blessed Giver Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever !
To gather to the fold once more,
And Zion's broken walls restore !
Of true obedience, minister
Of joy for mourning, unto her!
With fresher life be clothed upon ;
And glorious as Lebanon !
FRIEND of the Slave, and yet the friend of all ;
Lover of peace, yet ever foremost, when
The need of battling Freedom called for men To plant the banner on the outer wall ; Gentle and kindly, ever at distress Melted to more than woman's tenderness, Yet firm and steadfast, at his duty's post Fronting the violence of a maddened host, Like some grey rock from which the waves are tossed ! Knowing his deeds of love, men questioned not
The faith of one whose walk and word were right Who tranquilly in Life's great task-field wrought, And, side by side with evil, scarcely caught
A stain upon his pilgrim garb of white : Prompt to redress another's wrong, his own Leaving to Time and Truth and Penitence alone.
Such was our friend. Formed on the good old plan,
the church pet in the most honest man
And, while “Lord, Lord ! ” the pious tyrants cried,
And feel how true a man has walked with us on earth. Sixth month 6th, 1846.
TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.
Thine is a grief, the depth of which another
May never know ;
To thee I go.
I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding
Thy hand in mine;
The strength of thine.
I never knew, like thee, the dear departed ;
I stood not by
Lay down to die.
And on thy ears my words of weak condoling
Must vainly fall :
Sounds over all !
* Sophia STURGE, sister of JOSEPH STURGE, of Birmingham, the President of the British Complete Suffrage Association, died in the 6th mo. 1845. She was the colleague, counsellor, and ever ready helpmate of her brother in all his vast designs of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot says of her: “Never, perhaps, were the active and passive virtues of the human character more harmoniously and beautifully blended, than in this excellent woman.”