A stranger from a distant land
Across the western sea, Where peace doth reign, and howe'er poor
Man feels that he is free.
Of faith inspired, he'd crossed the foam
And left his native sod, That he his years might consecrate
To winning souls for God.
No higher aim was ever sought,
No purer soul was shriven; For the whole purpose of his life
Unto his Lord was given.
A noble matron sat beside
And soothed his dying bed; One who, with mother's tenderness,
Had wept her early dead.
Sore, sore it grieved that mother's heart!
When fever's pulse beat high And reason reeled, the parchèd lips
Gave forth the wailing cry,
"Oh! take me to that far-off land
Where cool sea-breezes blow; Where wintry sun doth smiling shine
Athwart the pure, white snow.
"Oh! thither wist I to return
Fraught with my mission high, To bear the standard of the Cross
Beneath my native sky.
"For this my spirit waked to zeal
Where soft the sunlight falls; For this I craved the higher lore
Of Propaganda's halls."
Then "list the strains of music!
Now loud, now soft and clear;— It is the voice of wavelets sweet
Which greets my listening ear.
"Brimful of glee, it seems to me,
They ripple o'er the strand, As when they sang the lullaby
Of our dear, household band.