A BIRD'S MINISTRY.
From his home in an Eastern bungalow,
In sight of the everlasting snow
Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,
Thus wrote my friend:—
"I had travelled far
From the Afghan towers of Candahar,
Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;
"And once, when the daily march was o'er,
As tired I sat in my tented door,
Hope failed me, as never it failed before.
"In swarming city, at wayside fane,
By the Indus' bank, on the scorching plain,
I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.
"No glimmer of light (I sighed) appears;
The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's fears
Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.
"'For Christ and his truth I stand alone
In the midst of millions: a sand-grain blown
Against your temple of ancient stone
"'As soon may level it!'" Faith forsook
My soul, as I turned on the pile to look;
Then, rising, my saddened way I took
To its lofty roof, for the cooler air:
I gazed, and marvelled;—how crumbled were
The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!