And many a weary day,

He had toiled away,

In his own humble home,

At basket, bark, and broom,

To gain the scanty fare,

Doled out to him grudgingly, where

His ancient sires,

Kindled their fires,

And roamed without control,

Over those wide domains,

Rocks, rivers, hills, and plains,

In undisputed right, lords of the whole.

But ah! those days were gone,

And weeks and months had flown,

Since dire disease had laid him low;

Nor huntsman’s skill,

Nor workman’s will,

In want, in danger, or alarm,

Could nerve his powerless, palsied arm,

Or bend his useless bow.

But God was there,

And fervent prayer,

To Heaven ascended,

And sweetly blended

With angel’s song,

From Seraph’s tongue;

And Joy was there, and Hope, and Faith,

Triumphing over pain and death;

The Light of Truth around him shone,

Auspicious of the brighter dawn;

He trusted in the living God,

As washed in Jesus’ precious blood:

No dread of death or priestly power,

Could shake him in that fearful hour,

Nor tyrant’s rod.

The fluttering breath from his palsied lung,

No utterance gave to his quivering tongue;

But still his ear

Was bent to hear

The Words of Truth and Love;

His flashing eye

Glanced toward the sky,

And he whispered, “I shall die;

But God is Love; There’s rest above.”