  Dedicated to Mrs. Anna M. D. Gordon, Medical Missionary at Mungeli, India. “Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task has done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.” —General Gordon’s epitaph, from “Imogen’s Dirge,” in Cymbeline. General George Gordon, Khartoum, Egypt, January 26, 1885. Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908. In the mystic land of Egypt, In the streets of old Khartoum, O’er the grave of martyred Gordon Does the rose of England bloom; By Mahdi, the false prophet, Borne down in hopeless strife, The Christian hero Gordon Laid down his priceless life. Thou Circean Cleopatra, Of legendary Nile, Luring to death the Roman Prince By thy pernicious smile A wine-inflamed and sensuous girl, Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl, Thou once dissolved and drank a pearl Inflamed by bacchanal applause, Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause. Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found— The pearl of boundless price— The healing drink had cleansed thy soul Like Magdalen’s sacrifice. Egypt redeemed had hailed the morn To a new life forever born, Image unavailable: Rev. E. M. GORDON His wife, Anna M. D. Gordon, Missionaries at Mungeli, India, and daughter Rev. E. M. GORDON His wife, Anna M. D. Gordon, Missionaries at Mungeli, India, and daughter And in thy glittering diadem Had shone the Cross—the hallowed gem Worn by the Babe of Bethlehem, Nor Africa had sent her fettered slaves To fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves. From the mystic land of India, In the flower of stalwart manhood, Another Gordon came— Counsellor, preacher, teacher— The foster son of Hopkinsville, Fearless and without blame; No gem in India’s richest mines Shot forth a purer flame. India’s best civic honors He calmly put aside— “I serve the Man of Galilee, Who upon Calvary died. Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prize From Him shall me divide, For I am bidden a chosen guest To the Lamb’s holy marriage feast To stand by Heaven’s own bride, And I wear the rose of Sharon, As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”— O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son, Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend, Is thy eternal pride! A yawning gulf once sundered Rome’s Forum—’twas Jove’s will; Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest gift Only the gulf can fill!” Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed, In panoply and plume, Down the dark gulf—it closes up, And thou hast met thy doom; High in Olympic halls great Jove For the martyred youth makes room. Immortal sacrifice! thy fame Shall fly o’er every sea; “Great souls are more precious than golden sand, Or all the pearls on the ocean strand, And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand; Death swallowed Curtius, but death itself Is swallowed in victory.” And Curtius and the Gordons twain, And all who in duty’s strife are slain, Shall live immortally, And the harps of love shall sound their praise In the choir above In sweetest melody. Immortal is the sacred prize Of him who for his fellow dies. Leap—not to death—a leap for life Was thine—far, far above the strife And stress of Earth’s uncertain life— Ungrateful oft to truest worth, Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth. Curtius! thou bearest not the sword or shield Of bloody war, but to the psalms Of poets’ harps thou wavest the palms Which demi-gods in glory bear, Walking the green Elysian fields Forever free from toil or care, Chanting a soul-inspiring song, While pilgrims to thy shrine the Eternal City throng. Listen, O missionary brothers, The mighty Christian brotherhood Who toil in surplice, gown, or hood, The rulers of each English-speaking nation Proclaim the watchword of Salvation; Monarchs become Evangel-nursing mothers; The doves that perch Within the belfry of the Church Turn carrier-doves; their rustling wings Fan every breeze with song; soft sings Victoria’s low and gentle voice, In tones which make mankind rejoice; Unsullied Sovereign she of brow serene, Proclaims the law of Christ, her realm’s foundation. Gladstone repeats the lofty proclamation: England’s star-bannered colony, Home of the upright, brave and free, The States so wisely ruled by Washington— Like England lit by never-setting sun— Send from Columbia’s far-winding shore The peaceful words to Hague of Theodore; The Rose of Sharon’s fragrant hedge Shall guard our borders, surest pledge Of universal lasting peace, And love shall reign and bloody wars shall cease. From Khartoum’s streets red with his blood Went Gordon’s soul to greet his God; Long had he served his Master well— What mattered where or how he fell? Thou, Gordon, canst not miss the way— Go easily to Eden’s day, Death’s trackless passage through the air Goes straight to Heaven from everywhere. Or Hopkinsville or old Khartoum, Glorious alike the good man’s doom. Wide is Christ’s many-mansioned room, And endless Eden’s fadeless bloom, Rescued by Calvary’s mighty cost— Shall not one precious soul be lost. * * * * * * * * Sleep quietly, O pilgrim guest; Let no ill dreams disturb thy rest. Thou hast blessed many, surely thou art blessed; The merciful shall sleep with peaceful breast, So summer twilights slumber in the West. * * * * * * * * A kindly voice and tapping at the door Salute him in the early morning; Lovingly spake woman’s urgent warning— “Refresh thee for thy journey—the time is brief.” Where time is counted by the clock no more Thou art divine and Death’s sharp shock is o’er— O the dread silence and its bitter grief! Speak low—thou canst not wake him—knock no more! For him shall many bleeding hearts be sore. He hears not, for his love-illumined eyes, Sealed to Earth’s scenes, open in other skies, High in his Master’s Court in Paradise. Love’s magic lyre is mute, But yesterday his spirit-stirring voice, Distinct and clear and mellow as a flute, Made our enraptured hearts in love rejoice. The accents of his tuneful tongue Sounded like harp by angel strung To melodies of Eden sung, On which his ravished audience hung: Chautauqua’s white and fluttering salute Shall greet him nevermore—that wondrous voice is mute. Far India’s pangs and perils now are o’er; The fordless midnight torrent’s threat’ning roar, Plague, famine, cobra’s fang and tiger’s leap, In sunless jungle or Himalayan steep, Confront the intrepid soul no more Nor vainly menace him with scath As he pursued the Galilean path To help the friendless sick or starving poor, For India’s wretched succor to secure; Blessed Virgin, see another son! Like Him of Calvary his course has run; Greeting of friends and voice of loving wife, The applause of eager listening crowds, Rending the air as tempests rend the clouds, Are naught to him God calls from earthly strife To rapturous peace of Eden’s blissful life. Two nations in one common grief Lament the Gordons twain; Both perished in the flower of life, Swift-stricken, but not in vain; One in the storm of battle, One in his quiet room— Hopkinsville and old Khartoum. Ye both have found eternal fame, Through magic power of a noble name. Now face to face, and hand in hand, They talk in blest repose, ’Neath skies which know no deadly heat, Nor winter’s bitter snows; In the opulence of Eden, Where Life’s shining river flows, On the verdant banks of the River of Life, Where the tree of Calvary grows, Where Christ Himself is Gardener, Creator, Shepherd, Pardoner, And the sweetest flower in Heaven’s bower Is Duty’s thornless rose. June 3, 1908. |
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