Original.

THE MISSIONARIES.

BY MISS BROWNING.

The New York Evangelist briefly notices the death of the Rev. Mr. Mitchell and his wife, missionaries of the American Board, which occurred on their way to their place of destination among the Nestorians of western Asia. Mr. Mitchell was a man of the highest promise and talents; and his wife, who was very young, is represented as combining all that is lovely in woman. Their melancholy fall, so full of anguish to the bereaved friends, and so deeply lamented by all who are interested in the advancement of Christ's cause, has called forth the following tribute to the memory of the youthful sufferers.

YON valiant soldier of the cross! see now

Devotion kindle in his glowing eye; Determination stamps his youthful brow,

For Christ to live, and in his cause to die. A mother's sorrows and a sister's tears

Move not the noble purpose of his soul; He points to heaven to soothe and hush those fears, Which only faith in Jesus can control. "How blessings brighten as they take their flight," And tighter twine around his heart those cords That he must sever in the cause and might

Of the great King of kings and Lord of lords. The memory of a thousand scenes of joy

Crowd on the heart their bursting eloquenceA mother, nightly praying o'er her boy,

His hope, his blessing, and his strong defense-
Kind sisters, playmates of his childhood hours,
And sharers of the joy of riper years,
Are dearer now; and e'en the birds and flowers,
Could he but weep, demand the flowing tears.
But, O, a gentle one is by his side,

A very girl in tenderness and years;
Yet strong in faith and love, that youthful bride,
And hope that looks beyond the darkest fears.
Now is the hour for woman's soul to rise,

Unmindful of the agony within;
She points them to a home beyond the skies,
And sweetly whispers, "There we'll meet again.
We bear Immanuel's flag to Jacob's race-

We go to lead his chosen ones to God; Then speed us with the story of his grace, The raptured song of Christ's redeeming blood. Father, you'll miss me at the hour of prayer,

Or when in praise the heart goes up in song; You'll miss me ever from your tender care;

But time is short-you will not miss me long. And, mother, when your patient, watchful love, Would fondly yearn o'er one it sought to shield From sorrow, pain, and sin, then look above,

And to your Savior's care your daughter yield Farewell, dear parents-brothers, sisters, too;

Each book or friend, each favorite walk or tree, Will bring my image back again to you,

And waken olden, tender thoughts of me. My own bright sunny home, my childhood's pride, And must I never taste your joys again? The winter's evening, by the bright fire-side,

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In other climes can I forget thee then?
Farewell! our chosen home is far abroad,
Our pleasures those which love and duty bring;
We'll tread the verdant land our Savior trod,
And echoing hills shall with hosannahs ring."
The parting blessing to receive they kneel,
Those noble ones, the chosen of the Lord,
And nature holds her breath, lest the deep spell
Be broke-e'en angels still the lyre's cord,
And eager gaze in pure and raptured joy.
With solemn awe each murmuring heart was stilled,
As silent prayed that mother for her boy,
While chastened love her bursting bosom filled.
Back from his brow the clustering hair she threw,
And there a mother's parting kiss she left-
Whispered, "To God, to thy young love be true,
Of all earth's chosen friends, save thee, bereft."
Then rose a father's blessing in that hour,

"Great God, be thou their everlasting friend,
Guide them aright by thine almighty power,
And let thy love their wandering steps attend."
But now the spirit-stirring anthem rings,

To cheer those Gospel heralds on their way:
Still that fond mother to her daughter clings-
"Mother, farewell, I must not, cannot stay."
They're gone: the deep blue ocean rolls between,
Where oft the starry sky dips in its foam;
The birds are yet as gay, the leaves as green,

But there's a change within their childhood home.
Syria, fair land, most favored spot on earth,

Chosen by Him who crown'd thy verdant vales,
As sinless man's first home, thou'st given birth
To kings and prophets, and thy hills and dales
Have often echoed back the lofty praise

Of Judah's mighty God, from David's harp.
Thy zephyrs whisper tales of other days—

Of Babel's plaintive songs, of conflicts sharp
With Canaan's ancient kings, and victories won.
And e'en thy rugged mountains, cold and bare,
Are hallowed by that high and holy One,
Who sought their solitude for midnight prayer.
The spicy breezes, from each cedar grove,

And vineyard rare, waft us his dying breath,
Whose quenchless, wondrous, agonizing love,
Purchased our ransom by a Savior's death.
Syria, since, then, is all thy glory lost,

A guilty, darken'd cloud hangs o'er thee now;
Thy ancient temple spoil'd, thy sons oppress'd,
And to a stranger tyrant made to bow.
But yet I see a little cloud of light

Bursting on high for Israel's down-trod race;
It larger grows with rays more glorious bright,
And their redemption in its beams I trace.

Such were the thoughts of that devoted pair,

As side by side the vessel's deck they trod; Each sound was hushed, and gone the daylight glare, While the soft moon threw round her silvery flood. The scene was one of passing loveliness.

Like some good spirit from the world of life,

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To cheer his heart mid joy or loneliness,
To that fond husband seem'd his trusting wife,
As with the Christian poet's raptured eye

God's promises to Abram's seed she plead,
And saw their coming ransom sealed on high,
While doubt and fear before her spirit fled.
The winds among the canvass whispering low,
Fling back the waving tresses from her brow;
Her speaking eye grows brighter with the glow
Of her own feelings, as they deepen now.
The night was calm, and save th' All-seeing eye
That guarded them with tender, constant love,
They were alone beneath that cloudless sky,
And shining stars look'd on them from above.
Then, as arose upon the evening air

The solemn voice of that devoted man, In soul-subduing, soul-exalting prayer,

They gave themselves entire to God again. Before them lay the fair and promised land,

And 'mongst its rocky hills, their destined sphere But neither rocky hills nor barren sands

Depress'd their hearts, or caused the starting tear. E'en now they hear the deep, heart-rending cry Of millions, perishing for heavenly foodO, if they had but angel's wings to fly, To bear the blessed manna sent from God!

'Twas autumn twilight: the rich sunset sky Spread o'er a scene of lonely barren sand; Nor aught is seen to entertain the eye,

Save one lone tent, in this deserted land. Why there alone? beside that desert spring, O'er which not e'en a pine its shadows threwMayhap a wandering Arab on the wing,

With booty, plundered from the pilgrim JewBold, fearless, tameless tribe, whose chosen home Is in the wilderness, or mountain land, Whose freedom is the desert plain to roamO, when will thy redemption be at hand? And who can tell but this may be the spot Where banish'd Ishmael's fainting parent wept; Then turn'd unto the fount with blessings fraught, And promises which God has faithful kept. But, ah! the thrilling scene within that tent Is not of Arab, feasting on his spoils; That anguish'd sigh comes from a bosom rent With bitter grief, and bound with bleeding coils. O, who can tell the agony of woe

To woman's heart, when all its hopes so bright, Its treasured love, are crushed beneath the blow Which hides their earthly object from her sight! And such, indeed, was the devotion pure

Of that fair girl, exiled from early home, And every joy that can the heart allure,

With one she lov'd, in stranger lands to roam. Since then, not one brief year has coursed its round, And with their mountain home almost in sight, Each glittering hope is trampled to the ground; For death is there, with his resistless might. There on a lowly couch the sufferer lies,

That holy man, a youthful martyr now,
And faith relights the brighten'd hopes that rise
To chase the gathering shadows from his brow.
His cold and dying hands are clasp'd in hers,

His icy cheek is pillow'd on her breast.
Could she but warm them with her scalding tears,
The desert, more than Eden bower, were blest.
"Great God," she cried, "in mercy spare him now,
O, leave me not alone in this dread hour;"
Then press'd such burning kisses on his brow,
As are unknown except to love's despair.
She drew him closer to her throbbing heart,
And vainly strove to warm his life anew-
Raised her clasp'd hands to heaven, "Lord, must we
part?

Then give him grace to die, and triumph too."
Her prayer was answered, and his glowing eye
Told of the holy joy that filled his breast:
"Mary, dear Mary, I could calmly die,

But, O, my widow'd wife, where will she rest,
In that dark hour to which her heart must bow,
When most she needs a husband's tender love?
But God has called me, dearest; I must go;

He'll gently guard thee, my own, stricken dove.
My absent mother, be her hope and stay,

God of my life! who dost not need me here,
Else thou wouldst not have call'd me thus away;
But let her know my sky in death was clear.
God shield thee, wife, for I am going now;
Earth fades away, but heaven is full in sight."
One look of love he gave, and murmur'd low
His last farewell; then sped to realms of light
That spirit pure-too pure on earth to stay.

Close to her breast the almost frantic wife
Still pressed in agony the soulless clay,

Seeking in vain to call it back to life"O, breathe again, my husband, speak once more, Call me thine own, and bid me die for thee. 'Tis all in vain. Great God in mercy hearTo thee, and thee alone, for help I flee;" Then by his side she sank in agony of prayer.

As the lost sailor, 'mid the howling storm

And midnight darkness, sees the morning star Rise in the east, and instant all is calm;

So when her soul, amid its deep despair,
Look'd up to Christ, her only refuge now,

He gently soothed and hushed its sigh and care,
And bade her heart in sweet submission bow.
She calmly wiped the dampness from his brow,
And printed on his lips a last fond kiss:

"Yes, dearest, sainted one, thou'st left me now,
But soon I'll join thee in the realms of bliss."
No wonder that those rude and mountain men
Were filled with pity for that lonely child-

More quick to do her bidding now, than when,
For promised gold, along the way they toiled.

She saw that their stern hearts could deeply feel— Then pointed to her husband's lifeless form;

Their moisten'd eyes quick answer'd her appeal,

And told her she was safe from every harm.

O, what a night was that, as by his side
On suffering couch she lay till morning sun,
Of earthly friend and comfort all denied,
And toil, fatigue, and grief their work had done!
Then, as they bore her husband from her view,
Wrapp'd in his cloak, uncoffined, without shroud,
And o'er his form the desert sand they threw,
In pain and anguish there she meekly bowed.

That was the hour that woman's soul most tries, (And who can feel its thrilling horrors may―

To attempt the scene in words my pen denies;) And in that hour she knew that she must die.

Then thoughts of home came rushing thro' her mind,

A father, watching o'er her suffering bed

A sister, in her warm affections twined:
"O, were they here to bathe my burning head!
And, mother, wert thou here to soothe me now,
Thy love would chase away my spirit's grief-
Would still the throbbing of my aching brow,
And to my dying hour bring sweet relief."

She linger'd there in pain a few brief days-
No gentler nurse than the attending Koords,

Who guarded them thro' all their desert ways, And, save their pitying looks, no soothing words. Sometime her thoughts in wild delirium roam, To happy scenes that in her memory live

To youthful friends around her childhood homeVain, fleeting fancies, yet they pleasure give.

And then, in joy too rapturous to remain,
Her husband labors in Nestoria's land-

She's by his side, and hears his voice again;
Then wakes, to die, there in the desert sand.
They buried her beside his lowly grave,
Bore to her weeping friends the tidings drear,
A penciled line that she in dying gave,
And bade them carry back-memento dear.

Who'll answer now the deep, heart-rending cry,

Borne on each breeze, from far Nestoria's land?

Shall it unheeded pass-the famished die?

And we dare meet them, curs'd at Christ's left hand? And can we hear them ask the way of life,

Then weigh the anguish of a soul that's lost,
Shut out from heaven, consign'd to hopeless grief,
And longer stay to count the trifling cost?
O, Christian reader, by thy hopes of heaven-
By all thy blessings, rich, and high, and rare—
By all thy precious joys, of sins forgiven,

Art thou not call'd upon to hasten there,
With news of Christ, the fainting soul to cheer-
The Gospel feast to spread-bid sinners come-
The promised highway of the Lord prepare,

That Israel's ransom'd seed may hasten home?
What costly sacrifice hast thou to bring

To Christ? Come, haste, and offer at his shrine; Give what thy soul most loves-an offering;

"Tis all thou canst return for love divine. If thou wilt bear the cross, with all its shame, Eternal life and Christ himself are thine;

And when at last he owns thy worthless name, Thou shalt with him in radiant glory shine.

SLEEPING CHILD.

-

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

SLEEP, dearest, long and sweet,
With smile upon thy brow,
Thy restless, tottering feet,
Are surely weary now,
Trotting about all day

Upon the nursery-floor,
Or happier still to play
Among the wild flowers gay
Beside thy father's door.

Thy little laughing eyes,

How tranquilly they rest, Thy tiny fingers clasp'd Upon thy guiltless breast, While o'er thy placid face

The stealing moonbeams fall, And with a heaven-taught grace Thy baby features trace

Upon the shaded wall.

Sleep, dearest! She whose ear

Her nursing-infant's sigh Hath never waked to hear

When midnight's hush was nigh, Ne'er felt its balmy kiss

The cradle-care repay,

Hath she not chanced to miss
The deepest, purest bliss

That cheers life's pilgrim-way?

To see each budding power

Thy Maker's goodness bless, To catch the manna-shower

Of thy full tenderness,
The immortal mind to train-

No more divine employ
Thy mother seeks to gain,
Until her spirit drain
The seraph cup of joy.

Original. HAPPINESS.

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I HAVE been where 'twas said I should meet thee,
With the learned, the gay, and the fair,

But when I expected to greet thee,
Thy shadow was all that was there.

I come to the humble and holy,

And dwell with the faithful and true,

I shed a soft light on the lowly,
Who goodness and glory pursue.

S. B.