Monody to Mrs. Sarah L. Smith

So Asia hath thy dust, thou who wert bornAmid my own wild hillocks, where the voiceOf falling waters and of gentle galesMingle their music. How thy soft dark eye,Thy graceful form, thy soul-illumined smile,Gleam forth upon me when I muse at eve,Mid the bright imagery of earliest years.

Hear I the murmur'd echo of thy nameFrom yon poor forest race? 'Tis meet for themTo hoard thy memory as a blessed star,For thou didst seek their lowly homes, and tellTheir sad-brow'd children of a Saviour's love,And of a clime where no oppressor comes.Cold winter found thee there, and summer's heat,With zeal unblenching. Though perchance the sneerMight curl some worldling's lip, 'twas not for theeTo note its language, or to scorn the soulOf the neglected Indian, or to treadUpon the ashes of his buried kingsAs on a loathsome weed.Thine own fair hallsLured thee in vain, until the hallow'd churchRear'd its light dome among them, and the voiceOf a devoted shepherd, day by day,Call'd back those wanderers to the sheltering foldOf a Redeemer's righteousness.

And thenThy path was on the waters, and thy handClose clasp'd in his who bore so fearless forthThe glorious Gospel to those ancient climesWhich in the darkness and the shade of deathBenighted dwell.Strong ties detain'd thee here:Home—father—sightless mother—sister dear—Brothers and tender friends—a full arrayOf hope and bliss. But what were those to thee,Who on God's altar laid the thought of self?What were such joys to thee, if duty badeTheir crucifixion?Oh! Jerusalem!Jerusalem! Say, do I see thee there?Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod,Or fervent kneeling where his prayer arose,All night on Olivet? or with meek handCulling from pure Siloam's marge a flower,Whose tender leaflets drink as fresh a dewAs when unhumbled Judah wore the crownOf queenly beauty? or with earnest eyeExploring where the shepherd-minstrel keptHis father's flock, before the cares that lodgeWithin the thorn-wreath'd circlet of a kingHad turn'd his temples gray? or with sweet smileReposing, wearied, in thy simple tentBy turbid Jordan and the bitter waveOf the Asphaltites?Back to thy placeAmid the Syrian vales, to thy loved toilsFor the forsaken Druses, to the throng

Of heathen babes, who on thine accents hangAs on a mother's; for the time is short.Perils upon the waters wait for thee,And then another Jordan, from whose floodIs no return.But thou, with lip so pale,Didst take the song of triumph, and go downAlone and fearless through its depths profound.Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad,Even to thy latest gasp.Therefore the griefBorn at thy grave is not like other grief.Tears mix with joy. We praise our God for thee.