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"Missionaries are going far beyond us, but they come not to us. We have been promised a Missionary, but can get none. God has given us plenty of corn, but we are perishing for want of instruction. Our people are dying every day. We have heard there is another life after death, but we know nothing of it."

see our infants fade. The mother clasps The enfeebled form, and watches night and day Its speechless agony, with tears and cries, But there's a hand more strong than her despair That rends it from her bosom. Our young men Are bold and full of strength, but something comes We know not what, and so they droop and die. Those whom we lov'd so much, our gentler friends, Who bless our homes, we gaze and they are gone. Our mighty chiefs, who in the battle's rage Tower'd up like Gods, so fearless, and return'd So loftily, behold! they pine away Like a pale girl, and so, we lay them down With the forgotten throng who dwell in dust. They call it death, and we have faintly heard By a far echo o'er the distant sea There was a life beyond it. Is it so? If there be aught above this mouldering mound Where we do leave our friends,—if there be hope So passing strange, that they should rise again And we should see them, we who mourn them now, We pray you speak such glorious tidings forth In our benighted clime. Ye heaven-spread sails Pass us not by! Men of the living God! Upon our mountain heights we stand and shout