Wife of a Missionary at her Husband's Grave

There was a new-made grave,On a far heathen shore,Where lonely slept a man of God,His mission-service o'er;There, when the setting sunHad tinged the west with flame,A tender infant in her arms,A mournful woman came.

Her youthful cheek was pale,Her fair form bending low,As thus upon the fitful galeShe pour'd her plaint of wo:"Friend of my inmost soul,The turf is on thy breast,And here amid the stranger's landThy precious dust must rest.

"Our helpless babe I bring,Who knew no father's love,Nor look'd upon this world of painTill thou hadst risen above;I lay him on thy bed,Unconscious tears to weep,Before our last farewell we take,And dare the faithless deep.

"Oh, when the mountain waveShall be our venturous path,And the loud midnight tempest howlsIn terror and in wrath,Thy manly arm no moreMy dearest prop must be,Nor thy strong counsel nerve my soulTo brave the raging sea.

"But if our native coastOnce more these feet should tread,And thou, the life of all my joys,Be absent with the dead,While each remember'd sceneShall with thine image glow,And friend and parent name thy name,How shall I bear the wo?

"Is it thy voice, my love,That bids me bear the rod,And stay my desolated heartUpon the widow's God?Say'st thou, when every rayOf hope is quench'd and dim,The widow and the fatherlessMay put their trust in Him?

"How bless'd that Word Divine,On which my soul relies,The resurrection of the just,The union in the skies!"

Faith came with heavenly light,Her struggling grief to quell,And in the holy words of prayerShe spake her last farewell.