Mrs Mary Waugh, the widow of Mr James Macarthur, merchant, Glasgow, published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "The Necropolis, and other Poems." One of the compositions in that publication, entitled "The Missionary," is inserted in the present work, as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national Muse. In early life Mrs Macarthur lived in the south of Scotland; she has for many years been resident in Glasgow.
He left his native land, and, far away
Across the waters sought a world unknown,
Though well he knew that he in vain might stray
In search of one so lovely as his own.
He left his home, around whose humble hearth
His parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd—
Friends who had known and loved him from his birth,
And who still loved him as a fav'rite child.
He left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd,
The woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear;
The plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd,
And every charm to love and fancy dear.
All these he left, with sad but willing heart,
Though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame;
In them not even his wishes claim'd a part,
And the world knew not of his very name.
Canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray?
'Twas love, but not such love as worldlings own,
That often smiles its sweetest to betray,
And stabs the breast that offered it a throne!
'Twas love to God, and love to all mankind!
His Master bade the obedient servant go,
And try if he in distant realms could find
Some who His name and saving grace would know.
'Twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears
His aged mother at their parting shed;
'Twas this that taught her how to calm her fears,
And beg a heavenly blessing on his head.
'Twas this that made his father calmly bear
A godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd,
And bade him humbly ask of God in prayer,
His virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid.
And when he rose to bless, and wish him well,
And bent a head with age and sorrow gray—
E'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell,
Half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away.
"And go," he said, "though I with mortal eyes
Shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more;
But when from earth to heaven our spirits rise,
The Hand that gave him shall my child restore.
"I bid thee go, though human tears will steal
From eyes that see the course thou hast to run;
And God forgive me if I wrongly feel,
Like Abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!"
And he is gone, with ardent steps he prest
Across the hills to where the vessel lay,
And soon I ween upon the ocean's breast
They saw the white sails bearing him away.
And did he go unfriended, poor, alone?
Did none of those who, in a favour'd land
The shelter of the gospel tree had known,
Desire to see its peaceful shade expand?
'Tis not for me to answer questions here—
Let ev'ry heart its own responses give,
And those to whom their fellow-men are dear,
Bestow the bread by which their souls may live!
