A MISSIONARY’S LAST FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.

Land of my birth, farewell! Thy shores are fading In the dark distance, and the ocean’s waves Are hiding thee from view; while, sadly aiding To dim my vision of thy snowy cliffs, My tears unbidden start. O happy land! I did not know how much I loved thee, till The breezes bore me from thee, and I gazed A long last look. I left thee when a child; And Afric’s summer suns full forty years Have burned upon my head, since in thy groves My boyish footsteps wandered. But my heart Was yet unwithered, and could quiver still When sounded on my ear thy name of glory. While oceans rolled between us, in my dreams My thoughts were of thee: but in waking hours I scarcely dared to hope to see thee more. I lingered o’er the story of thy fame, And joyed to claim thee as my native isle; A day-star to the nations, that would fain Follow, though from afar, thy track of light, And in its beams find their own way to freedom. In the far solitudes of regions dark With heathen gloom, my pensive soul has mused, And I have sighed to sun me in the light Which long has been thy halo; light from heaven, Amidst the brightness of whose gladdening rays Thy temples, halls, and palaces have stood Irradiate. But it might not, could not be. At length I saw thee once again! and then How thrilled my very heart-core as thy coasts Loomed through the mists of morning on my view, And thy proud vision of historic glory Marched in its dioramic grandeur past! I leaped upon thy freeborn soil once more: Thy fields were laughing, glad with spring-tide flowers, Thy greenwoods waving in the fresh wind’s breath; Thy streams, bounding from winter’s cold embrace, Threaded the vales with silver; while I stood And gazed with rapture, fresh and pure as boyhood’s, In ’wildering ecstasy. And then I swept On steam-wings o’er thy plains, and round thy hills, And down thy vales, ’mongst beauty ever changing: Now looking on the cornfield’s waving gladness; Now drinking fragrance from the hayfield’s breath; Now wondering like a child, as ivied towers, And slender church-spires, from their sheltering groves Pointing to heaven, and old baronial halls, Standing apart amidst their dark woods’ pride, And crumbling castle-keeps, that tell of times When warders blew their horns, and mailèd knights Broke spears and shattered helms in tournament, As these, and thousand more, went sailing by: Till plunged at last amidst the ’whelming tide Of thy great city’s life, I sank, a drop, Into its vast and restless ocean-whirl. . . . . . . . . . . But is it so? And I have really trod Thy soil again? Or did I only dream? Methought I mingled with thy multitudes, And saw the swarms of thy industrial hives Plying their ceaseless task, and piling stores To meet the wide world’s wants. Methought I saw Thy quickened life-blood of commercial being Pour through its iron veins the vital stream, Infusing universal energy. Did not thy glorious structures rise before me— Houses of mercy, halls and kingly courts? Did not imperial Windsor glad my eyes, Where England’s banner, free and proud, was waving; Brother-like greeting the free winds of heaven? Did I not wander through the gorgeous halls Where England’s senators, in trumpet tones, Have poured forth eloquence that awed the world? Where, mildly ruling, sits a mother Queen,— Her real throne a nation’s loving heart. Have I not stood within thy sacred fanes, Listening entranced, as billowing music rolled, And distant, broke upon the sculptured stone Like ocean’s waves upon their rocky bounds? And—tenderer, dearer recollection still— My mother’s and my childhood’s humble home, With childhood’s memories clustering thick around it: Did I not stand again upon its threshold, And greet my childhood’s playmates? Ah! how changed! Or was all this a dream? A happy dream, That rose in brightness, and then passed away For ever? No! It was not all a dream. The welcome of warm hearts was real, and then The glow of friendships formed was no illusion. Men great and good have spoken sacred truth; And I have listened with enraptured ears, As eloquence of Heaven’s own kindling burst In burning power from consecrated lips. And I have seen the Church’s standard-bearers: Men, crowned in hoary age with silver glory, Have blessed me in the Master’s sacred name, And bidden me God-speed in God’s great service. And I have mingled with the throngs that sent Up to high heaven their swelling song of praise, That, as “the voice of many waters,” rose Exultant from the lips and hearts of thousands, When the glad tidings came that “God was raised Up from His holy habitation” and Was pouring forth His Spirit on the nations. I did not dream when I beheld the light Of holy rapture beam from thousand eyes: I was not dreaming when I shared the glow Of wondering gratitude with thousand hearts. And when our “Hallelujah” rent the skies, And our rapt spirits felt the bliss of heaven Descend to meet us in the golden cloud Of God’s own presence, ’twas a glorious truth, A joy to feed the soul upon for ever! And yet ’tis like a dream: for, scarcely seen, Thy beauties fade from view; and the rich notes, That thrilled the soul to rapture, thrill no more. ’Twas but a glimpse of glory,—and ’tis gone. ’Twas but a taste of joy that left the soul Hungering with keener appetite. I go Just as my spirit is awaking, quick With new strange life and feeling; just As awakens fresh the home-throb of my heart, Owning its English birth. Well, be it so! ’Tis God that bids me go; ’tis duty calls Back to the land of darkness. Be it so! ’Tis well that I should go, ere silken webs, Woven by Christian kindness round my heart, Become too strong to leave me power to rend them. I go, to look upon thee never more; I go, but breathing prayers and blessings on thee. O England, speck amidst the world of waters! Thou art the world’s great wonder. Realms afar Have heard thy voice, have seen thy light, have felt thy power. Some, jealous, envy thee; some bless thy name, The might of freedom, and the light of truth,— The freedom that can burst the spirit’s bonds, The light that leads that spirit up to heaven,— These are thy charge, and for the wide world’s weal, Be faithful to thy trust, thou honour’d Isle! Thou hast a glorious mission to the nations. Hold fast the truth of God with strong right hand, Cast forth the traitors that would “take thy crown.” Still send thy sons, as Mercy’s angels, forth To sound in silver tones, to far-off lands, The trumpet of the everlasting gospel; So shall Heaven’s smile be thy perpetual light, And Heaven’s dread power, “a wall of fire,” thy guard. . . . . . . . . . . And now ’tis past! nor faintest trace remains Of headland, cliff, or mountain in the line Of the far off horizon; and in vain I strain my aching sight to catch one glimpse, But one glimpse more. England, farewell! Island of beauty, changing not with seasons; Island of glory, dimming not with years; Isle rich in blessings strewn by God’s own hand,— My native Isle! A fond long last farewell! Rev. H. H. Dugmore. English Channel, October 9, 1859.