TO THE REV. S. B. BURRELL.
O Friend, self-exiled from thy native land,
For ten long years beneath an Indian sun.
And now return'd, thy faithful labour done,
To feel the grasp of many a friendly hand :
With whisper 'd prayers the homeward ship was fann'd
As on she clove her way from zone to zone—
And eagerly was each arrival scann'd
In hopes that it might prove the expected one.
Blest are the seeds beside all waters sown—
And they who sow in tears can well afford
To reap the joyful harvest when 'tis mown
And in full garners for the winter stored—
Loved first for others' sake, now for thy own,
True worker in the vineyard of the Lord.