And in thy glittering diadem
Had shone the Cross—the hallowed gem
Worn by the Babe of Bethlehem,
Nor Africa had sent her fettered slaves
To fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves.
From the mystic land of India,
In the flower of stalwart manhood,
Another Gordon came—
Counsellor, preacher, teacher—
The foster son of Hopkinsville,
Fearless and without blame;
No gem in India’s richest mines
Shot forth a purer flame.
India’s best civic honors
He calmly put aside—
“I serve the Man of Galilee,
Who upon Calvary died.
Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prize
From Him shall me divide,
For I am bidden a chosen guest
To the Lamb’s holy marriage feast
To stand by Heaven’s own bride,
And I wear the rose of Sharon,
As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”—
O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son,
Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend,
Is thy eternal pride!
A yawning gulf once sundered
Rome’s Forum—’twas Jove’s will;
Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest gift
Only the gulf can fill!”
Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed,
In panoply and plume,
Down the dark gulf—it closes up,
And thou hast met thy doom;
High in Olympic halls great Jove
For the martyred youth makes room.
Immortal sacrifice! thy fame
Shall fly o’er every sea;
The loud seas shout to every land:
“Great souls are more precious than golden sand,
Or all the pearls on the ocean strand,
And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand;
Death swallowed Curtius, but death itself
Is swallowed in victory.”
And Curtius and the Gordons twain,
And all who in duty’s strife are slain,
Shall live immortally,
And the harps of love shall sound their praise
In the choir above
In sweetest melody.
Immortal is the sacred prize
Of him who for his fellow dies.
Leap—not to death—a leap for life
Was thine—far, far above the strife
And stress of Earth’s uncertain life—
Ungrateful oft to truest worth,
Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth.
Curtius! thou bearest not the sword or shield
Of bloody war, but to the psalms
Of poets’ harps thou wavest the palms
Which demi-gods in glory bear,
Walking the green Elysian fields
Forever free from toil or care,
Chanting a soul-inspiring song,
While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng.
Listen, O missionary brothers,
The mighty Christian brotherhood
Who toil in surplice, gown, or hood,
The rulers of each English-speaking nation
Proclaim the watchword of Salvation;
Monarchs become Evangel-nursing mothers;
The doves that perch
Within the belfry of the Church
Turn carrier-doves; their rustling wings
Fan every breeze with song; soft sings
Victoria’s low and gentle voice,
In tones which make mankind rejoice;
Of India’s Empress, England’s Queen,
Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene,
Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm’s foundation.
Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation:
England’s star-bannered colony,
Home of the upright, brave and free,
The States so wisely ruled by Washington—
Like England lit by never-setting sun—
Send from Columbia’s far-winding shore
The peaceful words to Hague of Theodore;
The Rose of Sharon’s fragrant hedge
Shall guard our borders, surest pledge
Of universal lasting peace,
And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease.