To a Missionary

Why should thy heart grow faint, they cheek be pale?
Why in thine eye should hang the frequent tear,
As if the promise of thy God would fail,
And thou and all be left to doubt and fear?
Doubt not, for holy men are gathered here;
Fear not, for holy thoughts surround the place,
And angel pinions hover round, to bear
To their bright homes the triumphs of His grace,
Whose word all sin and shame, all sorrow shall efface.

Pure as a cherub's wishes be thy thought,
For in thine ear are heavenly whisperings;
And strong thy purposes, as though they sought
To do the errand of the King of Kings.
And if thy heart be right, his mantle flings
Its glorious folds of charity around
Thine earthly feelings; and the tuneful strings
Of harps in heaven shall vibrate to the sound
Of thy soul's prayer from earth, if thou art contrite found.

Go then, and prosper. He has promised all—
All that instructed zeal can need or ask;
And thou art summoned with too loud a call,
To hesitate and tremble at thy task.
Let scoffers in their glimpse of sunshine bask,
And note thy pilgrimage in other light:
Theirs is a look that peeps but through a mask;
Thine is an open path, too plain, too bright
For those who doze by day, and see but in the night.