CHITAMBO, May 1st, 1873;
WESTMINSTER ABBEY, April 18th, 1874.
Now the end of all was nearing
Underneath the tattered awning;
Angels would relieve their vigils
Ere another morrow's dawning.
First they raised him from the mud-floor,
Leaves and grass his pallet only,
Then they smoothed a downless pillow
In that desert drear and lonely;
While the faithful boy Majwara
Lay close by his dying master,
Knowing well how helpless was he
To avert the dire disaster.

As the waves of life were ebbing,
Thoughts about the past were ever
Mingling in the feverish wanderings
Over mountain, lake, and river.
"Say, is this the Luapula?

This the chill Lofuko's water?"
"No, my Bwana," answered Susi,

1 "Master"--the name by which they addressed him.

Nursing like a tender daughter;"We are near the Mulilamo,

We are in Chitambo's village,
You may sleep assured of safety,
Fearing neither blood nor pillage."

Then he sank in broken slumber;
Who can tell what he was dreaming?
Of his childhood days at Blantyre;
Of the golden sunlight gleaming
Through old Bothwell's storied castle,
Lighting its umbrageous meadows;
Or when in the silver moonlight
He had watched the tender shadows?
Or it may be of the mother
Who the mission torch first lighted,
Which her son had borne to regions
By the direst curse benighted?
Or, perchance, the sainted partner
Who in life had shared his dangers,
Dreaming she had closed his eyelids
In the far-off land of strangers!

Forth he speeds to faithful Susi, Rousing him from fitful slumber; "Come to Bwana-follow quickly, Chumal, come with all our number!" Hastily they ran together, Entering the silent shieling,

There they gazed upon the dead man To his God devoutly kneeling! "Hush! our master still is praying," For they deemed they were mistaken, Thinking he had slept from weakness, And would by-and-by awaken. "Yet, come, feel how cold his cheek is; Matthew! can you hear no breathing? Has the forehead ceased its throbbing? And the chest its cruel heaving?" Yes, indeed, it all was over;

Pain, unrest, and toil are ended; He has gone to meet his kindred, Spirit hath with spirit blended: On Almighty strength, the hero In the hour of death reposes; Prayer began his noble warfare, And with prayer the battle closes. He has gone to get the welcome, "Good and faithful servant enter;" Summon in no hirèd minstrels, AFRICA! be his lamenter.

As "All Israel" mourned for Samuel, Let your millions, broken-hearted, Gather round in tears and sackcloth, And bewail the Great Departed!

Within England's reverend minster, Proud custodier of the ages, Resting-place of kings and princes, Poets, heroes, statesmen, sages; Every head is bowed in silence As the mourner's tread is sounding; Strange, unwonted is the homage Of the tear-dimmed crowd surrounding. Who this honoured entrant? counted Worthy of these precincts hoary; Brotherhood assigned with sleepers "Each one lying in his glory?"

'Tis the good man we have gazed on On his desert bier reposing, Tender children of his wanderings Closing eyes and limbs composing. When the burst of grief was over, And the public days to mourn him, Through a thousand miles of desert These his faithful sons had borne him. Only, first the clamant favour AFRICA had made with weeping, "If you will his dust to England, Let his heart be in my keeping!" It was done:-the lowly casket Safe was laid beneath a mvula;1 Then the funeral cortege slowly Wended towards the Luapula. Over sandy wastes they traversed, Scorning toil or leagues to measure; Bating heart or hope no moment, On they bore their priceless treasure.

In that ancient fane are gathered Men of every clime and order, Brothers from his native Clydesdale, Clansmen from beyond the border: Best and choicest sons of England

1 A large tree standing by the place, and on which Jacob Wainwright carved the name and date of death.

By befitting lips were spoken.

In the common grief are sharing,
Peer and statesman-royal depute,
Each his immortelle is bearing:
Hushed the shibboleth of party,

"All the creeds" these aisles are thronging;
Champion he of no mean faction,
But to Christendom belonging.
Rise! ye warrior dead around him,
Solemn shades of the departed!
Rise! and give ungrudging welcome
To the true and noble-hearted.
Well may costliest rites be paid him,
Gush of song and organ pealing;
Wake to life your holiest echoes,
Fretted aisle and gilded ceiling!

Now the obsequies are over:
Dust with kindred dust has blended;
But as Sabbath's sun is westering,
Multitudes anew have wended
To the shrine which holds his ashes:
Crowds again of every station
Throng within the spacious precincts
For the funeral oration.

Who among the favoured listeners
Can forget that music thrilling,
Like the voice of many waters,
Choir and nave and transept filling,
As the words of inspiration
Sweetly told the pilgrim's story,
Or portrayed his noble life-work
Haloed with prophetic glory;-
When the wilderness shall blossom,
Fountains in the desert springing,
And like Lebanon and Carmel
Break forth into joy and singing."
Or when rose "O God of Bethel," 2
Simple words, so dearly cherished,
By the great man from his childhood,
To the day he nobly perished.

Silent then the strains of music; And amid a hush unbroken, Lofty words of panegyric

1 Isa. xxxi. 1, 2. The anthem selected.

2 The well-known paraphrase, placed at the end of Scottish Bibles, and so peculiarly appropriate to the occasion

"O God of Bethel, by whose hand

Thy people still are fed;

Who through this weary 1ilgrimage
Hast all our fathers led.

"O spread thy covering wings around
Till all our wanderings cease,
And at our Father's loved abode
Our souls arrive in peace," &c.

Rites are ended:- and the "Dead March,"
With a cadence slow and measured,
Wailed its dirges o'er the ashes
Which the nation's crypt had treasured.
Rest in peace, thou hero-martyr!
Grandly simple is thy story:
Scotland gave thee-England keeps thee,
And to God we give the glory.

FAREWELL TO PALESTINE.

Panias, Mount Hermon, April 3, 1867. Though many be the shores and lands My pilgrim steps have wandered o'er, From Alpine heights to classic lands;Oh, never have I felt before

The effort, to pronounce farewell
To all those varied scenes of thine;
No other spot can share thy spell,
Unique, beloved Palestine!

Yet, not thy outward form can claim
This tribute-tear in parting now;
These fields so drear, these hills so tame,
The laurels faded on thy brow.

Dare I conceal the inward taunt,
As over mount and vale I trod,
"Is this indeed the angel-haunt,
The seraph-land--the home of God?"
Beneath my childhood's skies, I ween,
A thousand spots I can recall,
Far lovelier than your loveliest scene,
Of wood, and lake, and waterfall.

In vain I looked for limpid rills,
Where Syrian shepherd led his flock,
No herbage on your blighted hills,
No pine-tree in "the rifted rock."

Greater your charms, ye streams of home,
Which verdant meadows gently lave,
Than Jordan, with its turgid foam,
Fast hastening to its Dead Sea grave.

Or Kishon, by whose crimsoned tide
Confronting hosts their trumpets blew;
What is your scanty stream, beside
My own loved Con or Avondhu?

What are the hills of Ephraim bared, What Moab's sombre mountain-chain,