MISSIONARIES.
How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good, that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!—Isaiah, lii. 7.
This gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in all the world for a witness unto all nations: and then shall the end come.—Matthew, xxiv. 14.
They are the messengers of the churches, and the glory of Christ.—II. Corinthians, viii. 23.
By Heaven directed, by the world reviled,
Amidst the wilderness they sought a home,
Where beasts of prey and men of murder roam,
And untamed Nature holds her revels wild.
There on their pious toil their Master smiled,
And prospered them, unknown or scorned of men,
Till in the satyr’s haunt, and dragon’s den,
A garden bloomed, and savage hordes grew mild.
So, in the guilty heart, when heavenly grace
Enters, it ceaseth not till it uproot
All evil passions from each hidden cell;
Planting again an Eden in their place,
Which yields to men and angels pleasant fruit,
And God Himself delighteth there to dwell.
Pringle.
Strange scenes, strange men, untold, untried distress;
Pain, hardships, famine, cold, and nakedness,
Diseases; death, in every hideous form,
On shore, at sea, by fire, by flood, by storm;
Wild beasts, and wilder men:—unmoved with fear,
Health, comfort, safety, life they count not dear,
May they but hope a Saviour’s love to show,
And warn one spirit from eternal woe:
Nor will they faint, nor can they strive in vain,
Since thus—to live is Christ, to die is gain.
James Montgomery.
Thus saith the Lord,—My Church, to thee,
Peace, like a river, I will send;
The Gentiles in a stream shall see
My mercy, flowing without end.
The isles that never heard my fame,
Nor knew the glory of my might,
They shall be taught to fear my name
Called out of darkness into light.
And it shall come to pass, that vows
From Sabbath unto Sabbath day,
From moon to moon, in mine own house,
All nations, tribes, and tongues, shall pay.
James Montgomery.
Our prayers be with them—we who know
The value of a soul to save,
Must pray for those who seek to show
The heathen, hope beyond the grave.
Miss Landon.
Blessings be on their pathway, and increase!
These are the moral conquerors, and belong
To them the palm-branch and triumphal song—
Conquerors,—and yet the harbingers of peace!
Miss Landon.
Great Britain has her sons, both frank and brave,
Who noble triumphs win, but wear no glave!
Sons who in heart are firm, in toil are free,
To spread her glorious name from sea to sea!
Men, who have pushed their conquests wide and far,
And changed to pruning-hooks the shafts of war;
Who bear no glittering arms, no banners wave—
Who strike no blow—are stricken but to save!
Yet still they conquer! and where they appear,
The painted savage breaks his poisoned spear;
A bloodless triumph follows in their train—
For those they vanquish feel no victor’s chain!
They conquer!—nor like other conquerors boast
A prostrate people and a plundered coast—
Nor pant to hear a nation’s deafening peals,
With captive warriors at their chariot wheels—
Nor hang, like relics, in our holiest fane,
The flags that blush with war’s unhallowed stains.—
No, theirs are triumphs war can never bring!
Theirs are the pæans guardian seraphs sing!
Their noblest banner is the Book of Truth!
Their trophies—age, and infancy, and youth!
’Tis theirs to free—exalt—and not debase—
The painted brothers of our common race!
Nor stripe—nor tribute—nor oppressive sway
Degrade their labours, or obstruct their way!
Their watchword still—Let war and sorrow cease!
Their noblest epithet—The men of peace!
Dr. W. Beattie.
He goes to speak the words of life
To souls by error tossed:
And bear the gospel’s joyful sound
To lands in darkness lost—
To speak his Master’s glorious works,
His grace and power proclaim,
And teach untutored savages
To breathe Messiah’s name.
And O, the rich reward that waits
A work of grace like this!
A life of love, a death of peace,
A Heaven of endless bliss!
Earth’s proudest, noblest honours, fall
Far, far below the prize
He gains, who claims this work his own—
His glory never dies!
S. D. Patterson.
O, bless the pious zeal
And crown with glad success the labouring sons
Of that best charity, whose annual mite
Sends forth Thy gospel to the distant isles!
So shall the nations, rescued myriads, hear,
And own Thy mercy over all Thy works!
So, from each corner of the enlightened earth,
Incessant peals of universal joy
Shall hail Thee, heavenly Father, God of all!
Madan.
Where is your heathen brother?—From his grave
Near thy own gates, or ’neath a foreign sky,
From the thronged depths of ocean’s mourning wave,
His answering blood reproachfully doth cry,
Blood of the soul!—Can all earth’s fountains make
Thy dark stain disappear?—Stewards of God, awake!
Mrs. Sigourney.