On the floor of his wigwam an Indian lay,

And his spirit was rapidly passing away;

On his brow stood the dewdrop of death, thick and chill,

And the life-pulse once bounding was fast growing still;

He spoke to his friends as they gathered around,

All eager to list to the last fainting sound

Of the voice that had cheered them in council or fight.

Mid the fires of the wigwam or shadows of night,

He told them his prospects, but oh, what were these

To guide his frail bark o’er the transparent seas

Whose ripple waters no storm surge ere swells,

In the far distant land where the “Great Spirit” dwells.

Or fearless and free through the hunting grounds roam,

Where death as a visitor shall never more come?

Ah, no—but the fulness and greenness of grace,

The power of Jesus to save their lost race;

This, this was the theme—for to him had been given

A vision of glory, of God, and of Heaven!

He saw the paved streets which like burnished gold shone,

And highly exalted sat Christ on His throne;

While the angels were circling within their bright home,

And shouting triumphantly “John Paul has come!”

The Indian fell back on his skin-covered bed,

And soon he was one of earth’s numberless dead;

But his spirit had passed to its home in the sky,

To enjoy the full vision of glory on high.

Oh servant of Christ, speed thee on in thy work!

Thy mission of love—and though dangers should lurk

In each step of thy pathway—yet onward still move

Rejoicing to know that thy God doth approve—

And oh, if e’er weary or faint by the way,

Thy footsteps from duty are tempted to stray,

Remember one Micmac looks down from above,

The fruit of thy labour, the fruit of thy love;

The pledge which to thee by thy God hath been given,

That the seed sown on earth shall be garnered in Heaven.

                              * * * * *

Have you heard, have you heard of that sun-bright clime,

Undimmed by tears and uncursed by crime,

  There death hath the power no more to reign,

  For they live forever, and they know no pain,—

Have you heard of that sun-bright clime?

There’s a city fair, ’tis the saint’s sweet home,

There they ne’er shall know night’s gathering gloom,

  With its gates of pearl, and its streets of gold,

  It shines in the glory of God untold,

Over there in that sun-bright clime.

A river of water gushes there

Midst flowers of beauty strangely rare,

  And rich-plumed songsters flit through the bowers

  Of the tree of life on those golden shores,

Over there in that sun-bright clime.

Soon the ransomed host, all robed in white,

Will reach those fields of pure delight,

  And pluck rich-fruit from the life-tree bowers

  Mid a thousand hues of those fadeless flowers,

Over there in that sun-bright clime.

Not far far away is that sun-bright clime,

For now we are nearing the promised time

  When the Lord will come for his bride in white,

  Then we’ll bid adieu to those scenes of night,

And go home to that sun-bright clime.