, oh! fain would I rest
With Jesus, my Savior, and sleep on his breast.

I'm weary and thirsty, my spirit has flown
Almost to that river which bursts from the throne;--
I'd range its fair borders, and plunge in its flood,
And join with the angels in praising my God.

I'd rest in the shade of that tree, growing near,
Which yields its rich fruit every month in the year;
Its leaves are so healing, no sickness comes there,
To mar the new song as it floats through the air.

I think of the rest in those regions above,--
My soul spreads her pinions and soars like a dove,--
Yet I'm drawn back to earth by one tender tie,
Which oft clogs my wings;--then, oh! how can I fly!

I think of New England, my fair native land,
The friends of my childhood, that dear faithful band,
Who're waiting to greet me with hearts full of love,
Not knowing my bark will cast anchor above.

To see me, my kindred impatiently wait,--
I think of those dear ones,--my soul's in a strait,--
My father, my mother, my dear orphan son,--
Oh Lord, decide for me, let thy will be done'

JUDSON'S GRAVE.

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,