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AN AGED MISSIONARY. 347
Who are the happy ? Those who tread
Historic ground, And in their glowing ardour wed
Science profound ? Ah, frequently the learned head
With thorns is crown'd !
Who are the happy ? Those who kneel
At Friendship's shrine ? Whose ardent, faithful spirits feel
Her power divine ? E'en Friendship hath not power to heal
A restless mind.
Who are the happy ? They are those
Who look away To the blest Source of sure repose
And meekly stay Their faith upon the blood, which flows
AN AGED MISSIONARY.
His locks were white as snow; upon his brow There was the calmness of a summer eve, While in his clear eye shone the mildest light Of the first starlit; and his every tone Was melting as the zephyr's genial breath.