[Footnote 5:  North American Review.]

CHAPTER IV.

MARRIAGE OF MISS HALL AND MR. BOARDMAN.—­THEY SAIL FOR INDIA.—­LETTERS FROM MR. B.—­LETTERS FROM MRS. B.—­ANOTHER LETTER FROM MR. B.

It was to no slight sacrifice that the parents of Sarah Hall were summoned, when called to consent to her departure for Burmah.  The eldest of a large family—­arrived at an age when she could not only share her mother’s duties and labors, but be to her a sympathizing friend—­possessed of every quality which could endear her to her parents’ hearts—­emphatically their joy and pride—­how could they resign her—­especially how could they consent to her life-long exile from her native land; to end perchance in a cruel martyrdom on a heathen shore?  Can we wonder that the mother clinging to her daughter’s neck, exclaimed, “I cannot, cannot part with you!” or that the moment of departure must arrive, before she could falter, “My child, I hope I am willing?”

Her own feelings on leaving the home of her youth with him who was henceforth to supply to her the place of all other friends, are breathed in these graceful lines.

    “When far from those whose tender care
      Protected me from ills when young;
    And far from those who love to hear
      Affection from a sister’s tongue;

    When on a distant heathen shore,
      The deep blue ocean I shall see;
    And know the waves which hither bore
      Our bark, have left me none but thee;
    Perhaps a thought of childhood’s days
      Will cause a tear to dim my eye;
    And fragments of forgotten lays
      May wake the echo of a sigh. 
    Oh! wilt thou then forgive the tear? 
      Forgive the throbbings of my heart? 
    And point to those blest regions, where
      Friends meet, and never, never part!

    And when shall come affliction’s storm,
      When some deep, unexpected grief
    Shall pale my cheek, and waste my form,
      Then wilt thou point to sweet relief?

    And wilt thou, then, with soothing voice,
      Of Jesus’ painful conflicts tell? 
    And bid my aching heart rejoice,
      In these kind accents—­’All is well?’
    When blooming health and strength shall fly
      And I the prey of sickness prove,
    Oh! wilt thou watch with wakeful eye,
      The dying pillow of thy love?

    And when the chilling hand of death
      Shall lead me to my house in heaven
    And to the damp, repulsive earth,
      In cold embrace, this form be given;
    Oh, need I ask thee, wilt thou then,
      Upon each bright and pleasant eve,
    Seek out the solitary glen,
      To muse beside my lonely grave? 
    And while fond memory back shall steal,
      To scenes and days forever fled;
    Oh, let the veil of love conceal
      The frailties of the sleeping dead.