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A great man in our Israel ?
Fallen, while thy loins were girded still,

Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet,

And in thy hand retaining yet
The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell !
Unharmed and safe, where, wild and free,

Across the Neva's cold morass
The breezes from the Frozen Sea

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,
Tempered for thee the blasts which blew

Ladaga’s frozen surface o'er,
And blessed for thee the baleful dew

Of evening upon Eimeo's shore,
Beneath this sunny heaven of ours,
Midst our soft airs and opening flowers

Hath given thee a grave !

His will be done,
Who seeth not as man, whose way

Is not as ours !- 'T is well with thee!
Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay
Disquieted thy closing day,
But, evermore, thy soul could say,

“My Father careth still for me!” Called from thy hearth and home — from her,

The last bud on thy household tree,
The last dear one to minister

In duty and in love to thee,
From all which nature holdeth dear,

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,
Where never shines our Northern star

On that dark waste which Balboa saw
From Darien's mountains stretching far,
So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that there
With forehead to its damp wind bare

He bent his mailed knee in awe ;
In many an isle whose coral feet
The surges of that ocean beat,
In thy palm shadows, Oahu,

And Honolulu's silver bay,
Amidst Owhyhee's hills of blue,

And taro-plains of Tooboonai,
Are gentle hearts, which long shall be
Sad as our own at thought of thee,
Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed,
Whose souls in weariness and need

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 —
Grateful as Eschol's clustered vine
To Israel in a weary land !

And they who drew
By thousands round thee, in the hour

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
Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn,
Of those who first, rejoicing, heard
Through thee the Gospel's glorious word —

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Seals of thy true apostleship. · And, if the brightest diadem,

Whose gems of glory purely burn

Around the ransomed ones in bliss,
Be evermore reserved for them

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 !

Farewell !.
And though the ways of Zion mourn
When her strong ones are called away,
Who like thyself have calmly borne
The heat and burden of the day,
Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleepeth
His ancient watch around us keepeth ;
Still sent from His creating hand,
New witnesses for Truth shall stand-
New instruments to sound abroad
The Gospel of a risen Lord ;

To gather to the fold once more,
The desolate and gone astray,
The scattered of a cloudy day,

And Zion's broken walls restore !
And, through the travail and the toil

Of true obedience, minister
Beauty for ashes, and the oil

Of joy for mourning, unto her!
So shall her holy bounds increase
With walls of praise and gates of peace :
So shall the Vine, which martyr tears
And blood sustained in other years,

With fresher life be clothed upon ;
And to the world in beauty show
Like the rose-plant of Jericho,

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,
A true and brave and downright honest man ! -
He blew no trumpet in the market-place,
Nor in the church with hypocritic face
Supplied with cant the lack of Christian grace ;
Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful will
What others talked of while their hands were still :

the church pet in the most honest man

And, while “Lord, Lord ! ” the pious tyrants cried,
Who, in the poor, their Master crucified,
His daily prayer, far better understood
In acts than words, was simply DOING GOOD.
So calm, so constant was his rectitude,
That, by his loss alone we know its worth,

And feel how true a man has walked with us on earth. Sixth month 6th, 1846.


Thine is a grief, the depth of which another

May never know ;
Yet, o'er the waters, O, my stricken brother !

To thee I go.

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding

Thy hand in mine;
With even the weakness of my soul upholding

The strength of thine.

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed ;

I stood not by
When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted

Lay down to die.

And on thy ears my words of weak condoling

Must vainly fall :
The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling,

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.”

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