 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
II
As did one soul, whom here I fain would sing,For here in youth his gentle spirit took
New fire from Wesley's glow.
How oft have I,
A little child, harkened my father's voice
Preaching the Word in country homes remote,
Or wayside schools, where only two or three
Were gathered. Lo, again that voice I hear,
Like Wesley's, raised in those sweet, fervent hymns
Made sacred by how many saints of God
Who breathed their souls out on the well-loved tones.
Again I see those circling, eager faces;
I hear once more the solemn-urging words
That tell the things of God in simple phrase;
Again the deep-voiced, reverent prayer ascends,
Bringing to the still summer afternoon
A sense of the eternal. As he preached
He lived; unselfish, famelessly heroic.
For even in mid-career, with life still full,
His was the glorious privilege and choice
360
For country and for comrades; for he knew
No rule but duty, no reward but Christ.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |