 | Shamrocks |  |
188
THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
Shepherd, that art most tender to Thy sheep,
Fair and right pleasant are Thy pastures wide,
The daisied hillocks, where, at high noontide,
The young untired ones of the flock shall leap.
Lovely the green grass, where, in shadows deep,
They who were weary dream all peaceful-eyed;
Lovely the large moon overhead doth ride,
And the great hills their mystic watchings keep.
But far away where wintry winds are blowing,
O Shepherd, hark! a tender lamb doth stray,
Lost in the darkness and the midnight rain;
Arid and salt the bitter herbs are growing,
Whereof it makes its food; the dreary way
Dark is with thorns, and blood-tracks of its pain.
Fair and right pleasant are Thy pastures wide,
The daisied hillocks, where, at high noontide,
The young untired ones of the flock shall leap.
Lovely the green grass, where, in shadows deep,
They who were weary dream all peaceful-eyed;
Lovely the large moon overhead doth ride,
And the great hills their mystic watchings keep.
But far away where wintry winds are blowing,
O Shepherd, hark! a tender lamb doth stray,
Lost in the darkness and the midnight rain;
Arid and salt the bitter herbs are growing,
Whereof it makes its food; the dreary way
Dark is with thorns, and blood-tracks of its pain.
189
He took His lantern and His shepherd's crook,
And left His lovely fold, nor turned to see
How His beloved slept all peacefully;
And the moon silvered hill, and vale, and brook.
Across the weary wold His way He took;
About His path strange shapes did flit and flee,
The wind moaned in the darkness terribly,
And from His unseamed robe the snows He shook.
He will return when clear the dawn is shining,
Weary and footsore, bearing on His breast
That lamb which in the stormy night did cry,
Breaking His dreams of heaven. So unrepining
He doth go forth each night and leave His rest,
To seek His strayed ones under the wild sky.
And left His lovely fold, nor turned to see
How His beloved slept all peacefully;
And the moon silvered hill, and vale, and brook.
Across the weary wold His way He took;
About His path strange shapes did flit and flee,
The wind moaned in the darkness terribly,
And from His unseamed robe the snows He shook.
He will return when clear the dawn is shining,
Weary and footsore, bearing on His breast
That lamb which in the stormy night did cry,
Breaking His dreams of heaven. So unrepining
He doth go forth each night and leave His rest,
To seek His strayed ones under the wild sky.
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