On the 25th June, 1868, not far from the northern border of that lake Bangweolo on whose southern shore he passed away, Dr. Livingstone came on a grave in a forest.  He says of it: 

“It was a little rounded mound, as if the occupant sat in it in the usual native way; it was strewed over with flour, and a number of the large blue beads put on it; a little path showed that it had visitors.  This is the sort of grave I should prefer:  to be in the still, still forest, and no hand ever disturb my bones.  The graves at home always seemed to me to be miserable, especially those in the cold, damp clay, and without elbow-room; but I have nothing to do but wait till He who is over all decides where I have to lay me down and die.  Poor Mary lies on Shupanga brae, ‘and beeks fornent the sun.’”

“He who is over all” decreed that while his heart should lie in a leafy forest, in such a spot as he loved, his bones should repose in a great Christian temple, where many, day by day, as they read his name, would recall his noble Christian life, and feel how like he was to Him of whom it is written:  “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me; because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings to the meek:  He hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord; that He might be glorified.”

     “Droop half-mast colors, bow, bareheaded crowds,
     As this plain coffin o’er the side is slung,
     To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shrouds,
     As erst by Afric’s trunks, liana-hung.

     ’Tis the last mile of many thousands trod
       With failing strength but never-failing will,
     By the worn frame, now at its rest with God,
       That never rested from its fight with ill.

     Or if the ache of travel and of toil
       Would sometimes wring a short, sharp cry of pain
     From agony of fever, blain, and boil,
       ’Twas but to crush it down and on again!

     He knew not that the trumpet he had blown
       Out of the darkness of that dismal land,
     Had reached and roused an army of its own
       To strike the chains from the slave’s fettered hand.

     Now we believe, he knows, sees all is well;
       How God had stayed his will and shaped his way,
     To bring the light to those that darkling dwell
       With gains that life’s devotion well repay.

     Open the Abbey doors and bear him in
       To sleep with king and statesman, chief and sage,
     The missionary come of weaver-kin,
       But great by work that brooks no lower wage.