The New-Zealand Missionary

'Twas night, and in his tent he lay,Upon a heathen shore,While wildly on his wakeful earThe ocean's billows roar;'Twas midnight, and the war-club rangUpon his threshold stone,And heavy feet of savage menCame fiercely tramping on.

Loud were their tones in fierce debate,The chieftain and his clan,

"He shall not go,—he shall not go,That missionary man;For him the swelling sail doth spread,The tall ship ride the wave,But we will chain him to our coast,Yes, he shall be our slave:

Not from the groves our wood to bear,Nor water from the vale,Not in the battle-front to stand,Where proudest foe-men quail,Nor the great war-canoe to guide,Where crystal streams turn red;But he shall be our slave to breakThe soul its living bread."

Then slowly peer'd the rising moon,Above the forest-height,And bathed each cocoa's leafy crownIn tides of living light:To every cabin's grassy thatchA gift of beauty gave,And with a crest of silver cheer'dPacific's sullen wave.

But o'er that gentle scene, a shoutIn sudden clangor came,"Come forth, come forth, thou man of God,And answer to our claim:"So down to those dark island-men,He bow'd him as he spake,"Behold, your servant will I beFor Christ, my Master's sake."