But the true glory which gathered over
that little band of missionaries, as they left the snow-covered, icebound
coast of America, to find homes and graves in distant India, far outshines
all the glitter of pomp and imperial splendor which ever shed its rays upon
the brilliant successes of the monarch of France, the conqueror of Europe.
True, they went forth alone. No weeping church followed them to the water
side; no crowded shore sent up its wail, or echoed forth the fervent
prayer; but in the homes of the people, in the heart of God, these holy men
and women were remembered. Had that beautiful hymn been composed for them,
it could not have been more appropriate; and as they stood upon the deck
of the wave-washed Caravan, it must have been the sentiments of all their
hearts.
"Scenes of sacred grace and pleasure,
Holy days and Sabbath bell,
Richest, brightest, sweetest treasure,
Can I say a last farewell?
Can I leave you,
Far in distant lands to dwell?
Yes, I hasten from you gladly--
From the scenes I loved so well;
Far away, ye billows, bear me;
Lovely, native land, farewell!
Pleased I leave thee,
Far in heathen lands to dwell.
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