The following lines were suggested by a description of the effects οφ thirst told to the writer by the venerable African Missionary, Robert Moffat.
The African desert or wilderness roaming,
Pursuing his journey, the traveler goes;
He sees not a torrent all gushing and foaming,
But crosses a region where no river flows.
Himself and companions, all weary and thirsty,
No shelter protects from the sun’s scorching ray—
The fountain still distant and calabash empty,
He thinks of the water he once threw away.
The African village surprised and surrounded,
The terrified people endeavor to flee;
Their every intention is crossed and confounded,
The slave-hunter takes them his captives to be.
The rope round his neck, and his hands tied behind him,
The slave ‘neath the whip, as he goes on his way,
In vain sighs for succor which cannot now find him,
And thinks of the water he once threw away.
Outstretched on the field where the foeman has laid him,
With saber or bullet or splinter of shell;
The soldier, a victim which one moment made him,
In torture and anguish now lies where he fell.
The faintness and stupor the bleeding brought o’er him,
The smart of his wounds quickly chaseth away,
And thirsting intensely, no succor before him,
He thinks of the water he once threw away.
A river is flowing of pure living water,
It comes from the temple of God and the Lamb;
The invite is issued to every quarter,
For all who are thirsty; who hears should proclaim:
Who drinketh shall live and be saved forever,
Who hears and neglects it draws near to the day,
When careless and scorners, where hope cometh never,
Shall think of the water they once threw away.
T. J.
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