Thou Circean Cleopatra, Of legendary Nile, Luring to death the Roman Prince By thy pernicious smile A wine-inflamed and sensuous girl, Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl, Thou once dissolved and drank a pearl Inflamed by bacchanal applause, Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause. Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found-- The pearl of boundless price-- The healing drink had cleansed thy soul Like Magdalen’s sacrifice. Egypt redeemed had hailed the morn To a new life forever born, [Illustration: REV. E. M. GORDON His wife, Anna M. D. Gordon, Missionaries at Mungeli, India, and daughter] And in thy glittering diadem Had shone the Cross--the hallowed gem Worn by the Babe of Bethlehem, Nor Africa had sent her fettered slaves To fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves. From the mystic land of India, In the flower of stalwart manhood, Another Gordon came-- Counsellor, preacher, teacher-- The foster son of Hopkinsville, Fearless and without blame; No gem in India’s richest mines Shot forth a purer flame. India’s best civic honors He calmly put aside-- “I serve the Man of Galilee, Who upon Calvary died. Nor wealth, nor fame, nor earthly prize From Him shall me divide, For I am bidden a chosen guest To the Lamb’s holy marriage feast To stand by Heaven’s own bride, And I wear the rose of Sharon, As I stand by my Saviour’s side.”-- O Hopkinsville! Thy foster son, Priest, teacher, the poor leper’s friend, Is thy eternal pride! A yawning gulf once sundered Rome’s Forum--’twas Jove’s will; Quoth the high priest, “Rome’s dearest gift Only the gulf can fill!” Leap, Curtius, on thy frantic steed, In panoply and plume, Down the dark gulf--it closes up, And thou hast met thy doom; High in Olympic halls great Jove For the martyred youth makes room. Immortal sacrifice! thy fame Shall fly o’er every sea; The loud seas shout to every land: “Great souls are more precious than golden sand, Or all the pearls on the ocean strand, And they sparkle as gems on God’s right hand; Death swallowed Curtius, but death itself Is swallowed in victory.” And Curtius and the Gordons twain, And all who in duty’s strife are slain, Shall live immortally, And the harps of love shall sound their praise In the choir above In sweetest melody. Immortal is the sacred prize Of him who for his fellow dies. Leap--not to death--a leap for life Was thine--far, far above the strife And stress of Earth’s uncertain life-- Ungrateful oft to truest worth, Too oft the rabble’s hate or scorn or mirth.