wilt see
What wealth of flowers it owes to thee.

The robin's voice is never heard
From palm and banyan trees;
And strange to me each gorgeous bird,
Whose pinion fans the breeze;
But love's white wing bends softly here,
Love's thrilling music fills my ear.

* * * * *

The pure, the beautiful, the good,
Ne'er gather in this place;
None but the vicious and the rude,
The dark of mind and face;
But _all the wealth of thy vast soul_
Is pressed into my brimming bowl.

* * * * *

Here closely nestled by thy side,
Thy arm around me thrown,
I ask no more. _In mirth and pride_
_I've stood--oh so alone_!
Now, what is all this world to me,
Since I have found my world in thee?

Oh if we are so happy here,
Amid our toils and pains,
With thronging cares and dangers near
And marr'd by earthly stains,
How great must be the compass given
Our souls, to _bear_ the bliss of heaven!"

As to the sacrifice of her literary taste and reputation, this is so far
from the fact, that we may assert without fear of contradiction, that
the world never knew her best excellence as a writer, till it was
startled, as it were, by her deathless utterances, wafted by east winds
from her Indian home. Her memoir of her predecessor, and her appeals for
Burmah, have thrilled thousands of hearts that knew nothing of her
"Alderbrook;" and her "Bird," has, perhaps, awakened in many a mother's
heart its first deep appreciation of the holy responsibilities of
maternity. The Christian world gained much, the literary world lost
nothing, when Fanny Forester became a missionary.

But her harp is idle now, and its loosened strings will wait long for a
hand to tune and draw from them such soul-moving cadences as we have
been wont to hear. In purer air she sweeps a nobler lyre; and
methinks her song may well be, "Blessed are the dead that die in the
Lord; even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors, and
their works do follow them."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: Page 356.]

[Footnote 12: See her touching allusion to that suspense in the
thirteenth and fourteenth verses of her poem, "Sweet Mother," page 336.]

[Footnote 13: These are no idle words, for, says the New York Recorder,
"Her love for the missionary enterprise found expression in an act, by
which s