1. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. |
31. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
6. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
4. |
1. |
1. |
2. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. | II |
3. |
1. |
2. |
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 | ||