“Pale with sickness, weak and worn, Is the Christian hero borne Over hill, and brook, and fen, By his band of swart, wild men, Dainty odors floating back From their blossom-crushing track.
“Through the jungle, vast and dim, Swells out Nature’s matin hymn: Bulbuls ’mid the berries red, Showers of mellow music shed; Thrushes ’neath their crimson hoods Chant their loves along the woods;
“And the heron, as he springs Up, with startled rush of wings, Joins the gorgeous peacock’s scream; While the gushing of the stream Gives sweet cadence to the hymn, Swelling through the jungle dim.
“So they bear him on his way, Till the sunless sky is gray; Then within some lone _zayat_ Gentle fingers spread the mat; And a watcher, sad and wan, Bends above him till the dawn.
“Up and on! The tangled brake Hides the deadly water-snake; And the tiger, from his lair Half up-springing, snuffs the air, Doubtful gazing where they pass, Trailing through the long wet grass.
“Day has faded—rosy dawn Blushed again o’er wood and lawn; Day has deepened—level beams Light the brook in changeful gleams, Breaking in a golden flood Round strange groupings in the wood.
“There, where mountains wild and high Range their peaks along the sky, Lo! they pause. A crimson glow Burns upon that cheek of snow; And within the eyes’ soft blue Quiver tears like drops of dew.
“Upward, from the wooded dell, High the joyous greetings swell, Peal on peal; then circling round, Turbaned heads salute the ground, While upon the dewy air Floats a faint, soft voice in prayer.
“With the fever on his cheek, Breathing forth his teachings meek, Long the Gospel-bearer lies, Till the stars have climbed the skies, And the young moon’s slender rim Hides behind the mountain grim.
“’Twas for this sweet boon he came, Crushing back Death’s eager claim; Yet a few more lambs to fold, Ere he mingles with the mold— Lambs with torn and crimsoned fleece, Wildered in this wilderness.
“Once again the golden day Drops her veil of silver gray; And that dark-eyed mountain band Print with bare, brown feet the sand, Or the crystal wave turn back, Rippling from their watery track.
“Meekly down the river’s bed Sire and son alike are led, Parting the baptismal flood, As of old in Judah’s wood; While throughout the sylvan glen Rings the stern, deep-voiced Amen.
“With the love-light in his eyes, Mute the dying teacher lies. It is finished. Bear him back! Haste along the jungle track! See the lid uplifting now— See the glory on his brow.
“It is finished. Wood and glen Sigh their mournful, meek Amen. ’Mid that circle, sorrow spanned, Clasping close an icy hand, Lo! the midnight watcher wan, Waiting yet another dawn.”
When Mrs. Boardman with her son George, about two years and a half old, were thus suddenly left in all the perplexity and desolation of widowhood and fatherlessness, she received from Mr. Judson the following words of tenderest consolation and counsel:
_To Mrs. Boardman._
“RANGOON, _March_ 4, 1831.
“MY DEAR SISTER: You are now drinking the bitter cup whose dregs I am somewhat acquainted with. And though, for some time, you have been aware of its approach, I venture to say that it is far bitterer than you expected. It is common for persons in your situation to refuse all consolation, to cling to the dead, and to fear that they shall too soon forget the dear object of their affections. But don’t be concerned. I can assure you that months and months of heartrending anguish are before you, whether you will or not. I can only advise you to take the cup with both hands, and sit down quietly to the bitter repast which God has appointed for your sanctification. As to your beloved, you _know_ that all his tears are wiped away, and that the diadem which encircles his brow outshines the sun. Little Sarah and the other have again found their father, not the frail, sinful mortal that they left on earth, but an immortal saint, a magnificent, majestic king. What more can you desire for them? While, therefore, your tears flow, let a due proportion be tears of joy. Yet take the bitter cup with both hands, and sit down to your repast. You will soon learn a secret, that there is sweetness at the bottom. You will find it the sweetest cup that you ever tasted in all your life. You will find heaven coming near to you, and familiarity with your husband’s voice will be a connecting link, drawing you almost within the sphere of celestial music.
“I think, from, what I know of your mind, that you will not desert the post, but remain to carry on the work which he gloriously began. The Karens of Tavoy regard you as their spiritual mother; and the dying prayers of your beloved are waiting to be answered in blessings on your instructions.