Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/228

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is a sigh from Niger's sable realm, A voice of Afric's weeping. One hath fallen, Who pitched his tent on far Liberia's sands, And with the fervour of unresting love Did warn her children to a Saviour's arms. Alone he fell—that heart so richly filled With all affection's imagery—fair scenes Of home and brotherhood—so strongly moved To pour the promptings of its seraph-zeal In boundless confidence, and so replete With tender memory of its buried joys, That 'mid their hallowed tombs it fain had slept, Did in its stranger-solitude endure The long death-struggle and sink down to rest. Say ye alone he fell? It was not so. There was a hovering of celestial wings Around his lowly couch, a solemn sound Of stricken harps, such as around God's throne Make music night and day. He might not tell Of that high music, for his lip was sealed, And his eye closed. And so, ye say—he died, But all the glorious company of Heaven Do say—he lives, and that your brief farewell, Uttered in tears, was but the prelude-tone Of the full welcome of eternity.