260 JOHN ELIOT, THE INDIAN APOSTLE.
For the whisper soft of Charity
Will loosen its tightest strings.
His busy pen hath no record made
Of his worldly gain or loss ;
But through a language its point has ploughed,
Till it came to the planted Cross.
Softly and tenderly bending down
His head on his Master s breast,
With the parting whisper, "Welcome, joy !"
He sinks to his heavenly rest.
The echoes soft of the near response
We hear through the parted cloud,
As he lays his work at his Master s feet,
While the angels nearer crowd.
- * * *
They laid him down in the quiet shade Of the church he had loved so well, When the busy robins came to build, And the May-blooms o er him fell ; No word of praise o er his ashes speaks, For the motto yours and mine " Occurrent nubes," loses truth As he stands in the "cleare sunshine."
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