Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/79

Lashed by the tempest, swelled their blended tone,
"Sir, —we would hear of Christ. Give us a scroll
Bearing his name."
                                  And there that teacher stood,
Far from his native land,—amid the graves
Of his lost infants, and of her he loved
More than his life,—yes, there he stood alone,
And with a simple, saint-like eloquence
Spake his Redeemer's word. Forgot was all—
Home, boyhood, christian-fellowship—the tone
Of his sweet babes—his partner's dying strife—
Chains, perils, Burman dungeons, all forgot,
Save the deep danger of the heathen's soul,
And God's salvation. And methought that earth
In all she vaunts of majesty, or tricks
With silk and purple, or the baubled pride
Of throne and sceptre, or the blood-red pomp,
Of the stern hero, had not aught to boast
So truly great, so touching, so sublime,
As that lone Missionary, shaking off
All links and films and trappings of the world,
And in his chastened nakedness of soul
Rising to bear the embassy of Heaven.