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The following poem is put into the mouth of a dying Missionary, whose life has fallen a sacrifice to his exertions for the spread of Christianity in Africa.
The truth of the circumstances supposed has been too frequently and sadly attested by experience. May the anticipations expressed be speedily approved by as certain but more cheering evidence !
This Poem was inscribed to the President and Members of the Church Missionary Society; which contemplated amongst its first objects the amelioration of the spiritual condition of Africa ; and to this it has steadily persevered in giving its best energies, under great difficulties and discouragements.
STRETCHING OUT HER HANDS UNTO
Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath,
Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead, -
A still small whisper in my song, hath led
I bless thee, O my God!
Hath the day broke? I heard a gentle warning
Death !-is this death, so sweetly stealing on ?
Death the Destroyer, Sin's portentous son ?
To me he comes with morning, -with the hour
He wears the day-star on his radiant breast;
And a voice warbles in the south wind's breath,
My wife ! my precious wife ! how well beloved, Time, peril, pain have long and sternly proved ! It comes—the parting pang-it comes apace! Turn not those tear-worn eyes upon my face, Suing for leave to hope,-it may not be ! My God-our God hath set the spirit free: Yet bleeds my human heart, and ill can bear Thy passive grief, thy calm and still despair ; For
many a night, albeit thou deem'dst me sleeping, I felt thy silent
agony of weeping. Come, sit thee down beside me; let me rest My dying head upon thy gentle breast; Oh, yet a little longer! hand in hand, Before the sunny hills of Westmoreland, Whose forms e'en now with heavenly visions blend, Frostwick, and Rainsborough, and Ling-mell-end, Mid those dear haunts our careless childhood trod, We pledg’d us to each other and to God. Since then, submissive to his high decree, 'In perils of the desert and the sea,