THE MISSIONARY
Plough, vessel, plough the British
main,
Seek the free ocean's wider
plain;
Leave English scenes and
English skies,
Unbind, dissever English
ties;
Bear me to climes remote
and strange,
Where altered life, fast-following
change,
Hot action, never-ceasing
toil,
Shall stir, turn, dig, the
spirit's soil;
Fresh roots shall plant,
fresh seed shall sow,
Till a new garden there
shall grow,
Cleared of the weeds that
fill it now,--
Mere human love, mere selfish
yearning,
Which, cherished, would
arrest me yet.
I grasp the plough, there's
no returning,
Let me, then, struggle to
forget.
But England's shores are
yet in view,
And England's skies of tender
blue
Are arched above her guardian
sea.
I cannot yet Remembrance
flee;
I must again, then, firmly
face
That task of anguish, to
retrace.
Wedded to home--I home forsake;
Fearful of change--I changes
make;
Too fond of ease--I plunge
in toil;
Lover of calm--I seek turmoil:
Nature and hostile Destiny
Stir in my heart a conflict
wild;
And long and fierce the
war will be
Ere duty both has reconciled.
What other tie yet holds
me fast
To the divorced, abandoned
past?
Smouldering, on my heart's
altar lies
The fire of some great sacrifice,
Not yet half quenched. The
sacred steel
But lately struck my carnal
will,
My life-long hope, first
joy and last,
What I loved well, and clung
to fast;
What I wished wildly to
retain,
What I renounced with soul-felt
pain;
What--when I saw it, axe-struck,
perish--
Left me no joy on earth
to cherish;
A man bereft--yet sternly
now
I do confirm that Jephtha
vow:
Shall I retract, or fear,
or flee?
Did Christ, when rose the
fatal tree
Before him, on Mount Calvary?
'Twas a long fight, hard
fought, but won,
And what I did was justly
done.
Yet, Helen! from thy love
I turned,
When my heart most for thy
heart burned;
I dared thy tears, I dared
thy scorn--
Easier the death-pang had
been borne.
Helen, thou mightst not
go with me,
I could not--dared not stay
for thee!
I heard, afar, in bonds
complain
The savage from beyond the
main;
And that wild sound rose
o'er the cry
Wrung out by passion's agony;
And even when, with the
bitterest tear
I ever shed, mine eyes were
dim,
Still, with the spirit's
vision clear,
I saw Hell's empire, vast
and grim,
Spread on each Indian river's
shore,
Each realm of Asia covering
o'er.
There, the weak, trampled
by the strong,
Live but to suffer--hopeless
die;
There pagan-priests, whose
creed is Wrong,
Extortion, Lust, and Cruelty,
Crush our lost race--and
brimming fill
The bitter cup of human
ill;
And I--who have the healing
creed,
The faith benign of Mary's
Son,
Shall I behold my brother's
need,
And, selfishly, to aid him
shun?
I--who upon my mother's
knees,
In childhood, read Christ's
written word,
Received his legacy of peace,
His holy rule of action
heard;
I--in whose heart the sacred
sense
Of Jesus' love was early
felt;
Of his pure, full benevolence,
His pitying tenderness for
guilt;
His shepherd-care for wandering
sheep,
For all weak, sorrowing,
trembling things,
His mercy vast, his passion
deep
Of anguish for man's sufferings;
I--schooled from childhood
in such lore--
Dared I draw back or hesitate,
When called to heal the
sickness sore
Of those far off and desolate?
Dark, in the realm and shades
of Death,
Nations, and tribes, and
empires lie,
But even to them the light
of Faith
Is breaking on their sombre
sky:
And be it mine to bid them
raise
Their drooped heads to the
kindling scene,
And know and hail the sunrise
blaze
Which heralds Christ the
Nazarene.
I know how Hell the veil
will spread
Over their brows and filmy
eyes,
And earthward crush the
lifted head
That would look up and seek
the skies;
I know what war the fiend
will wage
Against that soldier of
the Cross,
Who comes to dare his demon
rage,
And work his kingdom shame
and loss.
Yes, hard and terrible the
toil
Of him who steps on foreign
soil,
Resolved to plant the gospel
vine,
Where tyrants rule and slaves
repine;
Eager to lift Religion's
light
Where thickest shades of
mental night
Screen the false god and
fiendish rite;
Reckless that missionary
blood,
Shed in wild wilderness
and wood,
Has left, upon the unblest
air,
The man's deep moan--the
martyr's prayer.
I know my lot--I only ask
Power to fulfil the glorious
task;
Willing the spirit, may
the flesh
Strength for the day receive
afresh.
May burning sun or deadly
wind
Prevail not o'er an earnest
mind;
May torments strange or
direst death
Nor trample truth, nor baffle
faith.
Though such blood-drops
should fall from me
As fell in old Gethsemane,
Welcome the anguish, so
it gaveMore strength to work--more skill to save.
And, oh! if brief must be
my time,
If hostile hand or fatal
clime
Cut short my course--still
o'er my grave,
Lord, may thy harvest whitening
wave.
So I the culture may begin,
Let others thrust the sickle
in;
If but the seed will faster
grow,
May my blood water what
I sow!
What! have I ever trembling
stood,
And feared to give to God
that blood?
What! has the coward love
of life
Made me shrink from the
righteous strife?
Have human passions, human
fears
Severed me from those Pioneers
Whose task is to march first,
and trace
Paths for the progress of
our race?
It has been so; but grant
me, Lord,
Now to stand steadfast by
Thy word!
Protected by salvation's
helm,
Shielded by faith, with
truth begirt,To smile when trials seek to whelm
And stand mid testing fires
unhurt!
Hurling hell's strongest
bulwarks down,
Even when the last pang
thrills my breast,
When death bestows the martyr's
crown,
And calls me into Jesus'
rest.
Then for my ultimate reward--
Then for the world-rejoicing
word--
The voice from Father--Spirit--Son:
"Servant of God, well hast
thou done!" |