To where his sacred relics lie,
Nor can the weeping Burmans come
To shed their tears around his tomb.
And when their work on earth is done,
No mourning daughter, wife, or son
Can rest from toil the weary head,
Beside him in his ocean bed.
But while we shrink from such a grave,
He rests as sweetly 'neath the wave
As though in Auburn's bowers he lay,
Where sunbeams through green branches play,
And roses, wet with tear drops, bloom
Around th' unconscious sleeper's tomb.
Let no rude wind, no angry storm,
The ocean's heaving breast deform,--
'Tis hallowed as dear Judson's bed,
Until the sea gives up its dead.
Though mortals weep with fond regret,
The Lord that spot will ne'er forget;
He will a faithful record keep,--
He knows where all his children sleep.
Though monsters should that form devour,
'Twill rise in beauty, strength and power;
That voice, which rends the tombs and graves,
Will sound through all the ocean caves;
Then 'roused by heaven's eternal King,
He'll tune his golden harp and sing;
While, quick as thought, to join the song,
Will Burman converts round him throng,
And on that bright auspicious morn,