INDIA.

There's a country o'er the billows deep, As fair as fair can be; Its north is bounded by mountains high, With sunlit summits that kiss the sky, Its south by the boundless sea. A stream flows down the mountain side, And swells to the great Ganges; Its placid depths, unknown, untold, Reflect the sunlight's orient gold, Then rest in southern seas. The silken palms their branches wave As soft as summer sails; And drowsy winds, so passing fair, With odors laden, strange and rare, Blow soft o'er sunbright vales. And nestling close 'mong shelt'ring hills The bamboo huts are seen; Like golden billows fall and rise The seas of grain 'neath Indian skies, By woods of silvered green. The date, the orange, the fig grow ripe In that golden country, where Through fragrant meads the pathways lead. Wouldst see God's handiwork indeed? Go view the sunset there! 'Tis veiled in clouds of splendid hue, In melting colors rare: Church domes in crimson waves are dyed, And everything seems glorified— Thank God there are churches there! Where once the starry heavens looked down, And wept a nation's blindness, Which knew no God to soothe its grief, And women—slaves! found no relief In love or human kindness, Millions of homes to-day rejoice And praise our God above; Millions have learned the hymn to swell, Through missionaries, sent to tell Of Him whose name is Love. But millions still are left in doubt, In darkness and alone; Their restless souls are wrung with grief, They find no respite or relief In heathen gods of stone. They've never heard of Him who gave Their glorious sun-kissed shores; God grant that we our efforts lend To teach them of a loving Friend Whom Freedom's land adores. Prosper, O Lord, this land of ours, So glad, so proud, so free, That we may missionaries send Till all that beauteous India land Has learned to worship Thee. Nothing we give our Father's cause Escapes His watchful eyes; Each mite will be a jewel rare To deck the crown we'll surely wear Some day in Paradise.