Dear shepherd of the Burman sheep,
   Where have they laid thee down to sleep? 
   Beside thy long lamented Ann,
   Or ’midst thy charge at Aracan? 
   Or does that palm tree o’er thee wave,
   Which shadows thy dear Sarah’s grave? 
   I pause, and drop the silent tear,—­
   In mournful tones, a voice I hear,
   Exclaiming, “Earth affords no space
   For Judson’s last calm resting place.” 
   Ye spicy groves, perfume each breeze
   That steals along the Indian seas,—­
   For we have felt a pang of woe,
   Since, plunged in awful depths below,
   Our much lamented Judson’s clay,
   Must ’neath its rolling billows lay,
   Where monsters of the ocean creep,
   ’Round him o’er whom the nations weep. 
   No stone directs the stranger’s eye
   To where his sacred relics lie,
   Nor can the weeping Burmans come
   To shed their tears around his tomb. 
   And when their work on earth is done,
   No mourning daughter, wife, or son
   Can rest from toil the weary head,
   Beside him in his ocean bed. 
   But while we shrink from such a grave,
   He rests as sweetly ’neath the wave
   As though in Auburn’s bowers he lay,
   Where sunbeams through green branches play,
   And roses, wet with tear drops, bloom
   Around th’ unconscious sleeper’s tomb. 
   Let no rude wind, no angry storm,
   The ocean’s heaving breast deform,—­
   ’Tis hallowed as dear Judson’s bed,
   Until the sea gives up its dead. 
   Though mortals weep with fond regret,
   The Lord that spot will ne’er forget;
   He will a faithful record keep,—­
   He knows where all his children sleep. 
   Though monsters should that form devour,
   ’Twill rise in beauty, strength and power;
   That voice, which rends the tombs and graves,
   Will sound through all the ocean caves;
   Then ’roused by heaven’s eternal King,
   He’ll tune his golden harp and sing;
   While, quick as thought, to join the song,
   Will Burman converts round him throng,
   And on that bright auspicious morn,
   Like jewels his rich crown adorn.

LINES

Suggested by A remark made by the Rev.  Winthrop Morse, while addressing A congregation assembled on the banks of the Sandy river, upon A baptismal occasion.

The writer of the following, though but a child, was present, and, for the first time, witnessed the administration of that solemn ordinance.

   “We’re trav’ling to eternity,”
     God’s faithful servant cried,
   As he addressed the multitude
     That thronged the water’s side.

   “We’re trav’ling to eternity,”
     He said with tearful eye,—­
   Then come, dear friends, and choose the path
     That leads to joys on high.