This renewed illness caused Martyn to determine on returning to England, for his health's sake. But it was too late. On his homeward way (_viâ_ Constantinople), seeing Mount Ararat on the journey, and passing through Erivan, Kars, Erzeroum, and Tokat--'hardly knowing how to keep his life in him'--he succumbed near the latter place, to hunger, thirst, sunstroke, fever and ague, aggravated by his desperate gallop for life across the scorching plains, and beneath a rainless sky, untempered by a single cloud, on the 6th October, 1812, in the thirty-second year of his age. Here the last entry, commencing 'Oh! when shall Time give place to Eternity?' appears in his sad, self-searching diary. Ten days afterwards he was no more. He was buried in the Armenian burial-ground at Tokat, with the honours usually accorded by Armenian Christians to an Archbishop; and a marble slab, which the Tokat Christians were wont to keep clear of weeds, covers his remains. Sir R. K. Porter, in his 'Travels in Persia' (vol. ii., p. 703), after eulogizing Martyn's self-devotion and zeal beyond the strength of a naturally delicate constitution, adds that 'exhausted nature sank under the apostolic labour, and in this place he was called to the rest of heaven. His remains sleep in a grave as humble as his own meekness.' Would it be too much to say of him 'Heaven scarce believed the conquest it surveyed; And Saints with wonder heard the vows he made'? Wordsworth's lines, at least, on another devoted son of the Church, are clearly appropriate to Martyn: 'He sought not praise, and praise did overlook His inobtrusive merit; but his life, Sweet to himself, was exercised in good That shall survive his name and memory.' His tomb is still, I believe, piously regarded by the natives, and it has been adorned by Lord Macaulay with the following lines: 'Here Martyn lies! In manhood's early bloom The Christian hero finds a Pagan's tomb: Religion sorrowing o'er her favourite son, Points to the glorious trophies which he won. Eternal trophies, not with slaughter red, Not stained with tears by hapless captives shed; But trophies of the Cross! For that dear Name Through every form of danger, death, and shame, Onward he journeyed to a happier shore, Where danger, death, and shame assault no more.'