When, to call thy children home,
Robed in glory thou shalt come,
For these little ones make room,
Lamb of God, we pray."
Her union with Dr. Judson was a happy one. Four little babes were born unto them ere the mother was called to try the realities of that world where there are no separations. In the care and culture of these much of her time was necessarily spent; and so excessive and fatiguing were her labors that she soon began to sink under them. After the birth of her last child, which was born in December, 1844, it became evident to her husband that he was soon to be left alone. The wasting disease made its appearance, and the pale form bowed beneath it. Her kind and experienced physicians, as a last resort, recommended a voyage to America; and, after much consideration and prayer, she determined to turn her back on Burmah and once more visit the land of her nativity. A passage to this country was immediately secured; and, in company with her husband, she set sail in the early part of 1845. They had no sooner embarked than her health began to amend; and when they reached the Isle of France Dr. Judson determined to return to his labors, and leave his companion to visit America alone. They made their arrangements to part—the one to labor and faint, the other to greet kind friends in an often-remembered land. On the Isle of France the beautiful poem, commencing,—
"We part on this green islet, love,"—
was written—a poem as affecting and heart-touching, when the circumstances are recounted, as any one ever written.
But, on putting out to sea again, the disease returned with new symptoms of alarm, and continued to increase until September 1, 1845, when she died within sight of the rocky Island of St. Helena.
Thus a second time was the venerable Judson bereaved of his dear companion, and in the midst of strangers called upon to surrender up the remains of the loved one to corruption and decay. They buried her where the hero of Lodi and Austerlitz slept, and a long train of mourners followed her to the tomb. The flags of the vessels in the harbor were seen waving at half mast, and signs of woe were observed in all directions.
She died in holy triumph, feeling that her labors were done, her toils finished, her race ended, and her warfare accomplished. To the husband who sat beside her when her last breath was drawn she said, just before she expired, "I ever love the Lord Jesus;" and with her hand in his, her soul leaning for support on the almighty arm, she sunk to rest. The sight which St. Helena saw that day was a sad one—more sad than when the leader of the defeated armies of France was laid to rest beneath its soil.
Perhaps this sketch of Mrs. J. cannot be brought to a close more appropriately than by the introduction of a beautiful extract from an address made by a distinguished statesman of New England at a missionary convention in Philadelphia—an address which contains a beautiful reference to the fallen missionary, to the labors of those who are now on heathen soil, and to the sufferings of our Lord Jesus Christ while on earth performing his labor of love and fulfilling his mission of grace to fallen man:—
"It is undoubtedly true that you are sometimes called upon to make sacrifices in your work of love. You sometimes feel that you are making sacrifices. It may be comparatively so; but really, if you look at it as it is, you will find it no very great sacrifice. Here are our brethren who have left their homes and friends, who have gone among strangers and heathens. We have heard the story of their deprivations, of their labors, of their sorrows, of their chains, and of their imprisonment. Many of them mourn over departed happiness; many of them have fallen in the great work, and now sleep in heathen lands; many of them have gone down to the bottom of the great deep, where the seaweed is their winding sheet, the coral their only tombstone. One sleeps in Helena till the sound of the last trumpet arouse her; and when she comes up she will be attended by a retinue ten thousand times more pompous and more splendid than ever surrounded the maddened emperor who had his grave in that island. His tomb was there, and after a few years, when it was opened, his military dress was wrapped around him as when he was laid there; but the star upon his bosom, the emblem of his glory, the pride of his life,—it was corroded and black, a true representation of human glory, of the glory of a conqueror and an imperial murderer. But when the grave shall open, and that loved sister Judson shall come forth, there will be no corroded stars over that heart. But those who are there, as I said before, have certainly made sacrifices compared with us, with the brethren and friends they left behind; but when they look in another direction, when they turn their eyes to the great field, they feel fully compensated. They may live upon rice and milk, and often not have enough of that. Their frail tenements are broken down by the storms; and they are exposed to the roaming tigers, who may spring upon and rush through the thin walls of their habitations. They may be imprisoned for a while and racked by the chains of tyranny. Yet never have they been compelled to exclaim, as did that Savior who came to his own and his own received him not, when a Pharisee proposed to be his follower, 'The birds of the air have nests and the foxes have holes; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.' Think of that, ye heralds of the cross,—think of that, brethren in foreign lands,—the Being who made the world, while here in the flesh, declaring that the birds which he had made had nests, and the foxes he had created had holes, where they could rest and sleep in security, but no place on this earth he had made where he could quietly lay that majestic, godlike head! Sometimes you feel as though your friends had forsaken you. Go to Gethsemane; see there that Master who but a short time before, with the twelve surrounding the table, had told them of the approaching trials and dangers: urged to rashness, the unthinking Peter had declared that, although all others might forsake him, he would not. He goes into that lonely garden, separating himself from his disciples; but he takes Peter, with two others, and asks them to watch here a while, while he goes yonder and prays. And then that traitor Judas had gone to make his bargain; and the Savior knew the bands were hunting him. O, think of that hour and that garden! Think of the agony of that Savior's heart, which made him say, 'My heart is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death'! Think of the agony, when the blood from the pores of his skin dropped down on Gethsemane's garden, and when he came up to the judgment hall the noisy rabble insulting him; his followers abandoning him; the man who two short hours before had said to him, 'that though all others forsake thee, I will not,' uttering curses in his hearing and denying that he ever knew him; then the scarlet robe and that crown of thorns! O, has earth ever witnessed such a spectacle as that? And then that cowardly Roman governor, though he knew he was innocent, yielded him up to the hands of a vociferous, noisy, and infuriated mob; and he was by him condemned to an ignominious death. In the service of such a Master, who of his followers would talk of sacrifice? And then the consummation upon the cross, when all the powers of darkness on earth and hell were defeated! Three days, and on the morning of the first day of the week that buffeted, that down-trodden, and crucified Savior burst the shackles of the tomb, laid the monster Death at his feet, and rose a triumphant conqueror over the grave."