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The priest whose heart is in his toil
Hath here a task of hope and love;
He dwells upon his native soil,
He has his native sky above.
Not so beneath this foreign sky;
Not so upon this burning strand;
Where yonder giant temples lie,* [1]
The miracles of mortal hand;
Mighty and beautiful, but given
To idols of a creed profane;
That cast the shade of earth on heaven,
By fancies monstrous, vile and vain.
The votary here must half unlearn
The accents of his mother-tongue;
Must dwell 'mid strangers, and must earn
Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung.
His words on hardened hearts must fall,
Hardened till God's appointed hour;
Yet he must wait and watch o'er all
Till hope grows faith and prayer has power.
And many a grave neglected lies,
Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord;
Who perished 'neath the sultry skies,
Where first they preached that sacred word.
But not in vain—their toil was blest;
Life's dearest hope by them was won
A blessing is upon their rest,
And on the work which they begun.
Yon city,† [2] where our purer creed
Was as a thing unnamed, unknown,
Has now a sense of deeper need,
Has now a place of prayer its own.
G
