 | Poems |  |
263
THE SHEEPFOLD.
A silent church on a lonely hill;
Beside it a grass-grown way
To the clustering gravestones, white and still,
Where the dead, forgotten, lay.
Beside it a grass-grown way
To the clustering gravestones, white and still,
Where the dead, forgotten, lay.
Green was the grass above their sleep,
And the crowding violets blue;
And amidst them all, in his slumber deep,
Lay the good old pastor, too.
And the crowding violets blue;
And amidst them all, in his slumber deep,
Lay the good old pastor, too.
I thought of a shepherd, far away,
On the star-lit Syrian plain,
Asleep with his sheep till dawn of day
Shall waken them all again.
On the star-lit Syrian plain,
Asleep with his sheep till dawn of day
Shall waken them all again.
Such as the shepherds, long ago,
Who guarded their flocks by night,
And woke when the heavens were all aglow
With the choral angels' light.
Who guarded their flocks by night,
And woke when the heavens were all aglow
With the choral angels' light.
But never shall those who slumber here,
To the Christmas chorus spring;
Never in awe and wonder hear
The Christmas angels sing.
To the Christmas chorus spring;
Never in awe and wonder hear
The Christmas angels sing.
264
Yet when the Master of sheepfolds calls,
When the last great dawn shall break;
And his voice from the heavenly pasture falls,
“My shepherds and sheep, awake!”
When the last great dawn shall break;
And his voice from the heavenly pasture falls,
“My shepherds and sheep, awake!”
These dead shall waken, their King to greet,
And the shepherd's answer be,
“Here am I, Lord, beneath thy feet,
And the sheep that thou gavest me.”
And the shepherd's answer be,
“Here am I, Lord, beneath thy feet,
And the sheep that thou gavest me.”
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