From Khartoum’s streets red with his blood
Went Gordon’s soul to greet his God;
Long had he served his Master well—
What mattered where or how he fell?
Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way—
Go easily to Eden’s day,
Death’s trackless passage through the air
Goes straight to Heaven from everywhere.
Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum,
Glorious alike the good man’s doom.
Wide is Christ’s many-mansioned room,
And endless Eden’s fadeless bloom,
Rescued by Calvary’s mighty cost—
Shall not one precious soul be lost.
* * * * * * * *
Sleep quietly, O pilgrim guest;
Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest.
Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed;
The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast,
So summer twilights slumber in the West.
* * * * * * * *
A kindly voice and tapping at the door
Salute him in the early morning;
Lovingly spake woman’s urgent warning—
“Refresh thee for thy journey—the time is brief.”
Too brief, alas, for us! but on that shore
Where time is counted by the clock no more
Thou art divine and Death’s sharp shock is o’er—
O the dread silence and its bitter grief!
Speak low—thou canst not wake him—knock no more!
For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore.
He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes,
Sealed to Earth’s scenes, open in other skies,
High in his Master’s Court in Paradise.
Love’s magic lyre is mute,
But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice,
Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute,
Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice.
The accents of his tuneful tongue
Sounded like harp by angel strung
To melodies of Eden sung,
On which his ravished audience hung:
Chautauqua’s white and fluttering salute
Shall greet him nevermore—that wondrous voice is mute.
Far India’s pangs and perils now are o’er;
The fordless midnight torrent’s threat’ning roar,
Plague, famine, cobra’s fang and tiger’s leap,
In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep,
Confront the intrepid soul no more
Nor vainly menace him with scath
As he pursued the Galilean path
To help the friendless sick or starving poor,
For India’s wretched succor to secure;
Blessed Virgin, see another son!
Like Him of Calvary his course has run;
Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife,
The applause of eager listening crowds,
Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds,
Are naught to him God calls from earthly strife
To rapturous peace of Eden’s blissful life.
Two nations in one common grief
Lament the Gordons twain;
Both perished in the flower of life,
Swift-stricken, but not in vain;
One in the storm of battle,
One in his quiet room—
Clasp hands o’er your untimely slain,
Hopkinsville and old Khartoum.
Ye both have found eternal fame,
Through magic power of a noble name.
Now face to face, and hand in hand,
They talk in blest repose,
’Neath skies which know no deadly heat,
Nor winter’s bitter snows;
In the opulence of Eden,
Where Life’s shining river flows,
On the verdant banks of the River of Life,
Where the tree of Calvary grows,
Where Christ Himself is Gardener,
Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner,
And the sweetest flower in Heaven’s bower
Is Duty’s thornless rose.
June 3, 1908.
THE WESTFIELD HOME.
(Dedicated to Mrs. Grover Cleveland, “Westfield,” Princeton, N. J.)