And thence, on edifice and site, His golden smile was backward cast, As if he loved that favored height To bless the longest and the last.
In eastern splendor, then arrayed, The full-orbed moon arose serene, Through evening's hush and night's cool shade To throw her lustre o'er the scene.
Her silvery vesture wrapped in sheen The stately seminary pile, And fell on tree, and flower, and green, Where pearly dews distilled the while.
And through the chapel's crystal shone Her light, within the place of prayer, Till bright-winged angels, from the throne Above, seemed met and hovering there.
It was a scene--it was an hour A spirit bowed in dust to raise Ennobled, till its every power, Awaked to joy, was tuned to praise.
Clear as that sun, fair as that moon, Shall thy dear Zion rise and shine Above her foes--Ah! Lord, how soon?-- When shall the ends of earth be thine?
We feel the parting angel's hand Is in our midst, to loose the band So close, so sacred, and so dear, That long hath bound us, brethren, here.
No more within this hallowed place, United at the throne of grace, Our prayers shall rise--our voices pour In praise, when this, our song is o'er.
To each we hear the Saviour say We to his work must hence away; For great the field--the laborers few! What wilt thou, Lord, have us to do?
O send thy Spirit from above To fire our hearts with heavenly love; And light our lips with truth, that we May, witnesses, go forth for thee.
And may we count all else as loss To spread the glory of thy cross-- From shades and death redeemed, to bring The priceless jewels of our King.
On distant islands of the sea-- On heathen shores our lot may be, To dying souls to bear the bread And balm of life on Calvary shed.
Yet, though our lines be marked afar, And some beneath a foreign star, We may look upward to the Sun Of righteousness, and still be one.
And when our works of faith are past, In joy we 'll meet on high at last; And there, in praise, our voices swell The song, where enters no farewell.
Poor speckled one! none else will deign To waft thy name around; So, let me take it on my strain, To give it air and sound.
Yes--air and sound, low child of earth! For these are oft the things That give a name its greatest worth, Its gorgeous plumes and wings.