html website builder

In a foreign soil he sleeps,
And lowly is his bed:
No early wild-flower weeps
Where he pillows his weary head.


By stranger-hands he was laid
Where the Siroc sweeps the mound;
Where the fierce night-kings invade
The solitude profound.


The grief of a tender brother
That hillock ne'er has known;
The tears of a yearning mother
Ne'er dropped on that cold stone.


No cenotaph tells his worth,
No sculptured wreaths proclaim
That the slumbering herald of truth
Has gained the martyr's name.


But the heart of affection true
Has sighed o'er the sandy wave;
And the tears of the wanderer bedew
The MISSIONARY'S lonely grave.