fering and sorrow, all borne, not only meekly and unmurmuringly, but victoriously and joyfully, for the sake of Christ and precious souls, have we traced in the foregoing pages! Faults our departed brother had, in common with all the sons of men, but who had fewer and less grievous ones, and who in royal virtues hath abounded more? In the truest sense he "was a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost and faith."

Not to nature but to divine grace was he indebted for these noble qualities. His testimony, like that of Paul, was: "By the grace of God I am what I am.” Like Paul also he regarded himself as "less than the least of all saints,"-"the chief of sinners," saved by mighty grace.

Earlier than he or others expected our brother's course is finished and his earthly work is done. Cut off in the midst of his days, the providence that removed him, when the field in which he wrought apparently needed him more than ever, remains an insoluble mystery. One thing, however, is consoling, namely, that he has not ceased to serve his Lord and King, but, in his removal from the field of earthly toil, has only been called to more exalted, perfect and blissful service at God's right hand. In his departure ours is the sorrow, his is the joy; ours the experience of disappointed hope, his the enrapturing bliss of hopes perfectly fulfilled. To us remain the toils, the trials, the conflicts, the disappointments and the sorrows of mortal existence; to him the repose and security of the "Father's house" above, where wearying toil, privation, hardship, with suffering and death, are

unknown, and where disappointment, and pain, and sorrow and crying never intrude, God having wiped away the tears of the pilgrims for ever.

"Servant of God, well done!

Thy glorious warfare's past!

The battle's fought, the race is won,

And thou art crowned at last."

IN MEMORIAM.

A TRIBUTE TO REV. G. H. AGNEW.

In a distant foreign country,
Fever-tossed and worn with pain,
Lay our dying missionary,

With delirious, tired brain,
Planning still for future service;

Loved ones sought to soothe in vain, Till one said, "We'll talk it over When the morning comes again."

Then the restless brain grew calmer,
And the dying worker smiled,
While there came a little respite
In the fever, raging wild;
And he hopefully responded,

While the loving watchers wept:
"Yes! Good-night! We'll talk it over
In the morning;" and he slept.

And the morning dawned as brightly
As an earthly morning may;
But to him it was the dawning
Of an Everlasting Day.

He has passed beyond the shadows,
But the loved ones calmly say,
"We'll talk it over in the morning,'

When the mists have cleared away."

In the home-land friends were planning, While their hearts from care were free, For the meeting with those loved ones

Who were soon to cross the sea, When there came the short, sad message, And their hopes were swept away, Till their meeting in the morning Of that grand Eternal Day.

Swift have seemed the years in passing Since our brother crossed the wave, Leaving friends and native home-land, Afric's sons to seek and save.

On his chosen field of labor

Other workers toil to-day;
May his mantle fall upon them,
As they follow in the way
He had planned for future service
In the work to him so dear;
And he'll tell them in the morning"
What he left unfinished here.

As a church we feel our sorrow,
And we weep with those who weep;
But we know our heavenly Father
Will a faithful vigil keep

O'er the wife and little children,
And will guide with tender care,
Till they meet him "in the morning,''
talk it over' there.

Then they'll

God protect our missionaries

From the dangers which surround,

Till a glorious golden harvest

Has their earthly labor crowned.
In the home-land or the foreign,
We will watch and work and pray,
Till we greet again our brother,
Some glad morn, not far away.

Farewell, then, thou tireless worker!
Thou hast laid thy burdens down,
And exchanged the earthly crosses
For the victor's palm and crown.
Farewell, faithful missionary!

Till, amid the white-robed throng,
We shall meet, and talk it over,"

66

In the morning Land of Song.

ELLA SOUTHWORTH CLARK.

Saratoga Springs, N. Y.