MRS. PAYNE,

Oh true and faithful! Twice ten earnest years

Of mission-toil in Afric's sultry clime

Attest thy patience in thy Master's cause,

Thy self-denial and humility.

Now, neath the shadow of the princely palm,

And where Liberia's church-crown'd summits rise,

Are sighs from sable bosoms, swelling deep

With gratitude for all thy hallow'd care.

— The Prelate, unto whom thy heart of hearts

Was link'd so tenderly,— who found in thee

Solace for exile from his native shore,

Laments thy loss, as the lone hours go by.

He mourns thee deepest, for he knew thee best,

Thy purity, thy sublimated search

For added holiness. With angel hand

Press thou thy pattern on us,— we who dwell

Amid the fullness of the bread from Heaven,

Forgetful of our heathen brother's need.

Now thou dost sweetly sleep, where pain and woe

Follow thee not. Their trial-time is o'er,

Their discipline perfected. For thy will

Was subjugated to the Will Divine,

And through a dear Redeemer's strength, thy soul

Hath won the victory.