IN an isle of wondrous fairness, in the glitt’ring southern seas,
Where, nobly grand and beautiful, wave tall majestic trees;
Where scented breezes gently rock, flowers gorgeous as the day,
And radiant birds pour music forth, from every graceful spray;
I saw, beside a glancing stream, deep in the forest’s shade,
A scene which, from my memory, can never, never fade—
A scene of blood and ruth, alas! for in that land abode
A wild and savage people—dark men who knew not God.
I saw a dark-eyed Indian child, sit ‘heath a stately tree,
I heard his joyous voice ring out, in tones of sportive glee.
Free nursling of the pathless woods, his footsteps watched by none,
His playmates winds and waves and flowers, what feared he, though alone?
A rustling in the tangled boughs—a gleam—a shriek—a groan—
And, with the gushing life-blood forth, had that young spirit gone.
A chief, whose dark eye rolled, like fire beneath his tow’ring crest,
With gory scalps, and blood-stained knives, and horrid trophies drest,
Had marked the fair boy where he played, had bounded on his prey:
The frame, still warm and quivering, I saw him bear away.
Afar, I followed on his trail—I saw the banquet spread—
I saw the horrid feast commence—then, breathless turned and fled.
Scarce two short years had rolled away, again my foot steps strayed,
By memory’s mournful interest led, to that sad blood stained glade.
I reached it—that tall tree rose, still beside the same clear flood
Which had run red, that fatal day, with childhood’s guiltless blood.
My heart stood still with strong amaze, but not as erst with fear;
What mighty power had been at work? what wondrous change was here?
A child of some ten summers sat, beneath the selfsame tree,
Her soft eye fixed upon a book, laid open on her knee,
And reading in her own wild tongue, in low and thrilling tone,
The words and deeds of love and grace, of God’s incarnate Son;
While at her feet—oh, can it be? — yes, yes! ‘tis he! ‘tis he!
The chief of those fierce cannibals—murd’rer of infancy,
Still wearing his wild forest garb, though vanished from his side
The tokens dread of death and blood, the Indian warrior’s pride;
That fiercely flashing eye, filled now, with holy look and meek,
While gentle tears rolled slowly down, his now unpainted cheek.
Upon that heathen’s darkened soul had shone a glorious light—
Jesus, the Sun of Righteousness, had risen with healing might,
And he whose hand a thousand times had reeked with human blood,
Sat lowly at a child’s young feet, learning from her of God!
Shall we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Shall we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?