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With a glad faith, whose eye, to track the just, Through shades and mysteries lifts a glance of love,

And yet can weep!-for Nature so deplores
The friend that leaves us, though for happier shores.

And one high tone of triumph o'er thy bier,
One strain of solemn rapture be allowed!
Thou that, rejoicing on thy mid-career,

Not to decay, but unto death hast bow'd!
In those bright regions of the rising sun,
Where Victory ne'er a crown like thine hath won.

Praise, for yet one more name, with power endowed,

To cheer and guide us onward as we press, Yet one more image on the heart bestow'd, To dwell there-beautiful in holiness! Thine! Heber, thine! whose memory from the


Shines as the star, which to the Saviour led.




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How well I remember the day I first met thee! 'Twas in scenes long forsaken, in moments long fled,

Then little thought I that a WORLD would regret


And Europe and Asia both mourn for thee dead.

Ah! little I thought, in those gay social hours, That round thy young head e'en the laurel would twine,

Still less that a crown of the amaranth's flowers, Enwreathed with the palm, would, O Heber! be thine.

We met in the world, and the light that shone round thee

Was the dangerous blaze of wit's meteor ray,

But e'en then, though unseen, mercy's angel had

found thee,

And the bright star of Bethlehem was marking thy way.

To the banks of the Isis, a far fitter dwelling, Thy footsteps returned, and thy hand to its lyre, While thy heart with the bard's bright ambition was swelling,

But holy the theme was that waken'd its fire.

Again in the world and with worldlings I met thee, And then thou wert welcomed as Palestine's bard,

They had scorned at the task which the Saviour had set thee,

The Christian's rough labour, the martyr's reward.

Yet, the one was my calling, thy portion the other;

The far shores of India received thee, and blest,

*At first he refused the appointment, but, "after devout prayer" he accepted it, thinking it was his duty to do so.

And its lowliest of teachers dared greet as a brother,

And love thee, though clad in the prelate's proud vest.

In the meek humble Christian forgot was thy greatness,

The follower they saw of a crucified Lord, For thy zeal showed his spirit, thy accents his sweetness,

And the heart of the heathen drank deep of the word.

Bright as short was thy course, when "a coal from the altar"

Had touch'd thy blest lip, and the voice bade thee "Go,"

Thy haste could not pause, and thy step could not falter,

Till o'er India's wide seas had advanced thy swift prow.

In vain her fierce sun, with its cloudless effulgence, Seemed arrows of death to shoot forth with each ray;

Thy faith gave to fear and fatigue no indulgence, But on to the goal urged thy perilous way!

And, martyr of zeal! thou e'en here wert rewarded,

When the dark sons of India came round thee in throngs,

While thee as a father they fondly regarded, Who taught them and blessed in their own native tongues.

When thou heard'st them, their faith's awful errors disclaiming,

Profess the pure creed which the Saviour had given,

Those moments thy mission's blest triumph proclaiming,

Gave joy which to thee seemed a foretaste of Heaven.*

*When they gathered round him on Easter-day evening to the number of thirteen hundred, and he blessed them in their native tongue, he exclaimed, "that he would gladly purchase that day with years of his life." Robinson's Sermon.

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