New Hampshire Statesman And Concord Register

POETRY
From the Recorder & Telegraph.

ON THE DEATH OF REV. PLINY FISK
Missionary to Palestine.

How beautiful it is for a man to die
Upon the walls of Zion! to be call'd
Like a watch-worn and weary sentinel
To put his armor off, and rest--in Heaven.

The sun was setting on Jerusalem.
The deep blue sky had not a cloud, and light
Was pouring on the dome of Omar's mosque
Like molten silver. Every thing was fair;
And beauty hung upon the tainted fanes,
Like a grieved spirit, lingering ere she gave
Her wing to air, for Heaven. The crowds
of men
Were in the busy streets, and nothing look'd
Like woe or suffering, save one small train
Bearing the dead to burial. It pass'd by,
And left no trace upon the busy throng.
The sun was just as beautiful ; the shout
Of joyous revelry, and the low hum
Of stirring thousands rose as constantly ;
Life look'd as winning; and the earth and
sky,
And every thing, seem'd strangely bent to
make
A contrast to that comment upon life.
How wonderful it is that human pride
Can pass that touching moral as it does.
Pass it so frequently, in all the force
Of beautiful and simple eloquence,
And learn no lesson! They bore on the dead
With the show of sorrow, troubled not
By the rude multitude, save here and there
A look of vague inquiry, or a curse
Half-mutter'd by some haughty Turk whose
sleeve
Had touch'd the tassel of the Christian's pall.
And Israel too pass'd on-the trampled Jew!
Israel ! who made Jerusalem a throne
For the wide world-pass'd on as carelessly;
Giving no look of interest to tell
The shrouded dead was any thing to her.
On that they would be gather'd as a brood
Is gather'd by a parent's quiet wing!--
They laid him down with strangers; for his
home
Was with the setting sun, and they who stood
And look'd so steadfastly upon his grave,
Were not his kindred ; but they found him
there,
And lov'd him for his ministry of Christ.
He had died young. But there are silver'd
heads,
Whose race of duty is less nobly run.
His heart was with Jerusalem: and strong
As was a mother's love, and the deep chords
Religion always makes so beautiful,
He sung them from his eager race,
And sought the broken people of his God,
To preach to them of Jesus.
There was one,
Who was his friend and helper. One who
went
And knelt beside him at the sepulchre
Where Jesus slept, to pray for Israel,
They had one spirit, and their hearts were
knit
With more than human love. God call'd
him home.
And he of whom I speak, stood up alone,
And in his broken heartedness wrought on,
Until his master call'd him.
Oh is it not a noble thing to die
As dies the Christian with his armor on !—
What is the hero's clarion, tho' its blast
Ring with the mastery of a world, to this?-
What are the searching victories of mind—
The lore of vanish'd ages-What are all
The trumpetings of proud humanity,
To the short history of him who made
His sepulchre beside the King of kings?
Roy.