The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

If they who stand beside the source
Of some famed river's mountain-flow,
And ponder on its trackless course
To meet the far-off waves below,
Can feel a pensive influence born,—
Then how, on each Sabbatic morn,
The men of God must inly feel
A musing depth of voiceless zeal,

When at the fountain-head they stand
Of youthful Life's untraced career,
As round them groups an order'd band
Of earnest children, shy and dear,—
Encircled thus, to hear and speak,
With glist'ning eye, and glowing cheek,
Those Truths baptismal, pure and high,
Which link our being with the sky.

“Go, feed My Lambs,” The Saviour cried
To Peter's large and loving heart;
And ever have those words supplied
What cannot from the Church depart,—

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A pastoral right to form and feed
God's nurslings, by His grace decreed
To taste the food of heaven, and live
By all His word and wisdom give.

What, though the catechiser teach
Unfathom'd truths, which far outsoar
All raptured saints and seraphs reach
When most their minds a God adore,
Love brings a light that truth explains
Beyond what science ere attains,
As Heaven by intuitions mild
Gleams on the conscience of a child.

If faltering tongues of bashful youth
The careful Priest by welcome bland
Attune to some almighty truth,
Beyond a child to understand,
Is not the most gigantic Soul
Which awes the world by deep control,
A mental babe with lisping mind,
Compared with angels in its kind?

The Gospel o'er the cradle bends,
And gently leads each growing child,
Nor at the Font its mission ends,
But follows it with accent mild;
And so, by her maternal voice
The Church directs the infant choice,
And loves to dream on each white brow
The mystic Cross is mirror'd now.

God shield each lamb, and little one!
For soon the world before it lies;
And cold were he who looked upon
Those cherub lips, and chasten'd eyes,
Nor felt his heart-pulse throb with prayer
That all the Sponsors did declare,
When first the white-robed babe was given
To Jesu's arms for life and heaven,

Hereafter each in faith may keep.—
Alas, the infant-grace departs;
Enough to make mild angels weep
Already stains some youthful hearts!
Wilder'd by many a temper wild
Wilful and vain becomes the child,
Till robes baptismal wear no more
The whiteness at the Font they wore.

Yet, Shepherd of Thy blood-priced fold!
Since Thou didst stand at mother's knee,
And as a spotless Babe behold
The virgin brow, which bent o'er Thee,—
Thy spirit hung on each high word
An echoing conscience loved and heard,
While patriarch, saint, and prophet brought
Lessons to rear Thy human thought.

Lover divine of children dear!
In Whose fond arms an infant lay,
E'en now the Church believes Thee near
To hear their budding accents pray;
And oh! if child-born mem'ries still
Thy depths of sacred Manhood fill,
Look from Thy Mercy-Throne on high,
Hear children lisp, and mothers sigh.

Nor let the stern and sceptic Mind
'Tween Christ and childhood take its stand,
And, reas'ning here with falsehood blind,
Presume to hold His secret Hand
Who works by love's mysterious law
A grace cold reason never saw;
And by His Spirit, present now,
Recalls the child's baptismal vow

Back to the soul, perchance with fear;—
And opes the spring of thought within,
Until religion's vestal tear
Is dropt o'er some remember'd sin:
New hopes awake, and conscience burns
With hallow'd blush, as more it learns,
Who at the font His welcome gave,
Still longs in heaven the child to save.

Lord of simplicity and truth!
A scene like this the oldest need,
To summon back regretted youth
And bid them with compunction bleed:
A babe-like spirit, born of love,—
What purer gift can Grace above
Grant to the Saint, who lives below,
More childlike for the heavens to grow?