"We did not wonder, therefore, to hear Dr. Wayland's address open with a confession of the inadequacy of speech to do justice to the thoughts and feelings that fill the soul to overflowing at such an hour. And while listening to his lofty, bold, beautiful, and we may add emphatically _scriptural_ delineation of the objects, qualifications, and duties of a Christian missionary,--a delineation that made every other object and character than that of the Christian dwindle into utter insignificance in the comparison,--we felt as did Peter on the mount of glorious vision: 'It is good to be here.' And the thought more than once occurred to us, How would the late venerable Baldwin have enjoyed this scene! "We were struck by the remark of Mr. Wade, that, while he regarded the prayers of Christians in this country as indispensable to the success of the mission, he could not but fear that prayers _such as he had sometimes heard_ would avail them or their offerers little. The fervor of love, the expectancy of hope, and the persevering constancy of faith were the spiritual qualities wanted. Could they not be obtained? "In the farewell of Ko Chet-thing and Moung Sway-moung there was a simplicity and pious warmth that went to the heart. They were grateful for the unspeakable blessings of the gospel sent to them when in darkness, and happy alike that they had been permitted of God to see the land where the seed grew; that they were now about to return to plant and rear the tree of the gospel in Burmah; and that they could hope hereafter to meet their Christian friends of America in heaven." The closing hymn, which was sung by the choir and congregation with fine effect, was written for the occasion by one of the sweetest writers among American poets. Native land!--in summer smiling,-- Hill and valley, grove and stream; Home! whose nameless charms beguiling, Peaceful nursed our infant dream; Haunts! to which our childhood hasted, Where the earliest wild flowers grew; Church! where Christ's free grace we tasted, Graved on memory's page,--_Adieu_! Mother! who hast watched our pillow In thy tender, sleepless love, Lo, we dare the crosted billow; Mother, put thy trust above. Father! from thy guidance turning, O'er the deep our way we take; Keep the prayerful incense burning On thine altar, for our sake. Brothers! sisters! more than ever Are our fond affections twined, As that hallowed bond we sever Which the hand of Nature joined. But the cry of Burmah's anguish Through our inmost hearts doth sound; Countless souls in misery languish; We would fly to heal their wound. Burmah! we would soothe thy weeping; Take us to thy sultry breast; Where thy sainted dust is sleeping Let us share a kindred rest. Friends! this span of life is fleeting; Hark! the harps of angels swell; Think of that eternal meeting, Where no voice shall say, _Farewell_! Mrs. L. H. Sigourney.