Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1834.pdf/95

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The votary here must half unlearn The accents of his mother-tongue; Must dwell ’mid strangers, and must earn Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung.

His words on hardened hearts must fall, Harden'd till God’s appointed hour; Yet he must wait, and watch o'er all, Till hope grows faith, and prayer has power.

And many a grave neglected lies, Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord; Who perish'd ’neath the sultry skies, Where first they preached that sacred word.

But not in vain—their toil was blest; Life's dearest hope by them was won; A blessing is upon their rest, And on the work which they begun.

Yon city,* where our purer creed Was as a thing unnamed, unknown, Has now a sense of deeper need, Has now a place of prayer its own.

And many a darkened mind has light, And many a stony heart has tears; The morning breaking o’er that night, So long upon those godless spheres.

Our prayers be with them—we who know The value of a soul to save, Must pray for those, who seek to show The Heathen hope beyond the grave.