 | Poems |  |
47
A SPRING SABBATH WALK.
Most earnest was his voice! most mild his look,
As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor;—
He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,
Feed, feed my sheep, are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is ay before his eyes.
O, how I love, with melted soul, to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! What tho' the opening spring be chill!
Altho' the lark, checked in his airy path,
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod,
That still o'ertops the blade! Altho' no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand,
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What tho' the clouds oft lower! Their threats but end
In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe,—melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor;—
He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,
Feed, feed my sheep, are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is ay before his eyes.
O, how I love, with melted soul, to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! What tho' the opening spring be chill!
48
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod,
That still o'ertops the blade! Altho' no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand,
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What tho' the clouds oft lower! Their threats but end
In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe,—melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
Sweet is the sunny nook, to which my steps
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where,—so lovely all around,
The works of God, arrayed in vernal smile!
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where,—so lovely all around,
The works of God, arrayed in vernal smile!
Oft at this season, musing, I prolong
My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast,
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark,
Descending, vocal, from her latest flight,
While, disregardful of yon lonely star,—
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,—
Sweet Redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chaunts,
In desultory strains, his evening hymn.
My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast,
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark,
Descending, vocal, from her latest flight,
While, disregardful of yon lonely star,—
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,—
Sweet Redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chaunts,
In desultory strains, his evening hymn.
“So when he had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my lambs. He saith to him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved, because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep.”— John, xxi. 15—17.
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