The Missionary’s Wife: A Poem

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THE MISSIONARY'S WIFE. BY SARAH E. PEARSON.

How still the world lies 'neath it's shroud of snow This bitter winter's night; And every crystal like a diamond throws It's shaft of light

Reflection of the myriad cold, white stars Gleaming on high; Nor smallest hint of feathery cloudlet mars The deep, dark sky. Pure as a vestal virgin, and serene, Earth's picture from my cottage window seen.

And yet the boom of foam-capped, phantom waves Is in my ears; And deadly perils of the mighty deep Provoke my fears For oh, somewhere upon the awful waste Of ocean wide, My love is borne with every pulse away Upon it's tide. Farther from home and country, and from me. To stranger-lands beyond the throbbing sea.

He goes forth weeping, hearing precious seed, Oh, earth, for though To me so cold and fair, thy children's sins Stain thy pure snow. The Master called, I gave him, earth, for thee; My best beloved,

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178 IMPROVEMENT ERA.

Smiled on the sacrifice, nor let him see How I was moved A last fond kiss, I softly closed the door, And sank down fainting on the cottage floor.

Oh, zephyrs, waft my blessings to my love, O'er vale and lea; Oh, winds, take up the whisper, like a dove, And bear it out to sea; Oh, waves, rock him so gently on thy breast He may not miss So much as I, his lonely, loving wife, Our goodnight kiss. Oh, Christ, in vision comfort thou thine own With sweetest message from the great white throne.

And help, that I my burden take again In trustful cheerfulness; To worthy be of him who in his pain Pities my loneliness. And bid the years pass swiftly, like a span Of twilight hour; — The bud of hope that we may meet again Bloom into flower. In Thee I trust, shield from the world's alarms, My pure, true husband give back to my arms.