Lives of the Three Mrs. Judsons

by Arabella M. Willson

Poor and needy little children, Saviour, God, we come to Thee, For our hearts are full of sorrow, And no other hope have we. Out, upon the restless ocean, There is one we dearly love,— Fold him in thine arms of pity, Spread thy guardian wings above. When the winds are howling round him, When the angry waves are high, When black, heavy, midnight shadows, On his trackless pathway lie, Guide and guard him, blessed Saviour, Bid the hurrying tempests stay; Plant thy foot upon the waters. Send thy smile to light his way. When he lies, all pale, and suffering, Stretched upon his narrow bed, With no loving face bent o'er him, No soft hand about his head, O, let kind and pitying angels, Their bright forms around him bow; Let them kiss his heavy eyelids, Let them fan his fevered brow. Poor and needy little children, Still we raise our cry to Thee We have nestled in his bosom, We have sported on his knee; Dearly, dearly do we love him, —We, who on his breast have lain— Pity now our desolation! Bring him back to us again! If it please thee, Heavenly Father, We would see him come once more, With his olden step of vigor, With the love-lit smile he wore; But if we must tread Life's valley, Orphaned, guideless, and alone, Let us lose not, 'mid the shadows, His dear footprints to thy Throne.

Maulmain, April, 1850.

SWEET MOTHER.

The wild, south-west Monsoon has risen, With broad, gray wings of gloom, While here, from out my dreary prison, I look, as from a tomb—Alas! My heart another tomb. Upon the low-thatched roof, the rain, With ceaseless patter, falls; My choicest treasures bear its stain— Mould gathers on the walls—Would Heaven 'Twere only on the walls! Sweet Mother! I am here alone, In sorrow and in pain; The sunshine from my heart has flown, It feels the driving rain—Ah, me! The chill, and mould, and rain. Four laggard months have wheeled their round Since love upon it smiled; And everything of earth has frowned On thy poor, stricken child—sweet friend, Thy weary, suffering child. I'd watched my loved one, night and day. Scarce breathing when he slept; And as my hopes were swept away, I'd on his bosom wept—O God! How had I prayed and wept! They bore him from me to the ship, As bearers bear the dead; I kissed his speechless, quivering lip, And left him on his bed—Alas! It seemed a coffin-bed! When from my gentle sister's tomb, In all our grief, we came, Rememberest thou her vacant room! Well, his was just the same, that day. The very, very same. Then, mother, little Charley came— Our beautiful fair boy, With my own father's cherished name— But oh, he brought no joy!—My child Brought mourning, and no joy. His little grave I cannot see, Though weary months have sped Since pitying lips bent over me, And whispered, "He is dead!"—Alas 'Tis dreadful to be dead! I do not mean for one like me, —So weary, worn, and weak,— Death's shadowy paleness seems to be Even now, upon my cheek—his seal On form, and brow and cheek. But for a bright-winged bird like him, To hush his joyous song, And, prisoned in a coffin dim, Join Death's pale, phantom throng—My boy To join that grisly throng! Oh, Mother, I can scarcely bear To think of this to-day! It was so exquisitely fair, —That little form of clay—my heart Still lingers by his clay. And when for one loved far, far more, Come thickly gathering tears; My star of faith is clouded o'er, I sink beneath my fears—sweet friend, My heavy weight of fears. Oh, should he not return to me, Drear, drear must be life's night! And, mother, I can almost see Even now the gathering blight—my soul Faints, stricken by the blight. Oh, but to feel thy fond arms twine Around me, once again! It almost seems those lips of thine Might kiss away the pain—might soothe This dull, cold, heavy pain. But, gentle Mother, through life's storms, I may not lean on thee, For helpless, cowering little forms Cling trustingly to me—Poor babes! To have no guide but me! With weary foot, and broken wing, With bleeding heart, and sore, Thy Dove looks backward, sorrowing, But seeks the ark no more—thy breast Seeks never, never more. Sweet Mother, for this wanderer pray, That loftier faith be given; Her broken reeds all swept away, That she may lean on Heaven—her soul Grow strong on Christ and Heaven. All fearfully, all tearfully, Alone and sorrowing. My dim eye lifted to the sky, Fast to the cross I cling—O Christ! To thy dear cross I cling.

Maulmain, August 8th, 1850

From the sad voyage which drew forth this most touching poem Dr. Judson never returned. He died on board the ship which was bearing him to more healthful climes; and his body was committed to the ocean. One of the most excellent of Mrs. Judson's productions is her account of the closing scenes in her husband's life, contained in a letter to his sister. Long as it is, we cannot bring ourselves to abridge it. It will convince our readers that if the THREE whose lives we have sketched, have been among the first of women, they were united to one who knew and appreciated their excellence, and who was worthy to share their affection.

CLOSING SCENES IN THE LIFE OF DR. JUDSON.

BY HIS WIDOW.

Last month I could do no more than announce to you our painful bereavement, which though not altogether unexpected, will, I very well know, fall upon your heart with overwhelming weight. You will find the account of your brother's last days on board the Aristide Marie, in a letter written by Mr. Ranney from Mauritius, to the Secretary of the Board; and I can add nothing to it, with the exception of a few unimportant particulars, gleaned in conversation with Mr. R. and the Coringa servant. I grieve that it should be so—that I was not permitted to watch beside him during those days of terrible suffering; but the pain, which I at first felt, is gradually yielding to gratitude for the inestimable privileges which had previously been granted me.

There was something exceedingly beautiful in the decline of your brother's life—more beautiful than I can describe, though the impression will remain with me as a sacred legacy, until I go to meet him where suns shall never set, and life shall never end. He had been, from my first acquaintance with him, an uncommonly spiritual Christian, exhibiting his richest graces in the unguarded intercourse of private life; but during his last year, it seemed as though the light of the world on which he was entering, had been sent to brighten his upward pathway. Every subject on which we conversed, every book we read, every incident that occurred, whether trivial or important, had a tendency to suggest some peculiarly spiritual train of thought, till it seemed to me that more than ever before, "Christ was all his theme." Something of the same nature was also noted in his preaching, to which I then had not the privilege of listening. He was in the habit, however, of studying his subject for the Sabbath, audibly, and in my presence, at which time he was frequently so much affected as to weep, and some times so overwhelmed with the vastness of his conceptions, as to be obliged to abandon his theme and choose another. My own illness at the commencement of the year had brought eternity very near to us, and rendered death, the grave, and the bright heaven beyond it, familiar subjects of conversation. Gladly would I give you, my dear sister, some idea of the share borne by him in those memorable conversations; but it would be impossible to convey, even to those who knew him best, the most distant conception. I believe he has sometimes been thought eloquent, both in conversation and in the sacred desk; but the fervid, burning eloquence, the deep pathos, the touching tenderness, the elevation of thought, and intense beauty of expression, which characterized those private teachings, were not only beyond what I had ever heard before, but such as I felt sure arrested his own attention, and surprised even himself. About this time he began to find unusual satisfaction and enjoyment in his private devotions; and seemed to have few objects of interest continually rising in his mind each of which in turn became special subjects of prayer. Among these, one of the most prominent was the conversion of his posterity. He remarked, that he had always prayed for his children, but that of late he had felt impressed with the duty of praying for their children and their children's children down to the latest generation. He also prayed most fervently, that his impressions on this particular subject might be transferred to his sons and daughters, and thence to their offspring, so that he should ultimately meet a long unbroken line of descendants before the throne of God, where all might join together in ascribing everlasting praises to their Redeemer.