Poems By John Moultrie. New ed |
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SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY.
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 | Poems |  |
SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY.
FROM THE EPISTLE.
SONNET.
Thou wouldst have been, had all thy hopes died here,Of mortal men most wretched, Holy Paul!
For thou didst cast away thine earthly all—
Wealth, comfort, reputation bright and clear,
Yea, whatsoever carnal men hold dear,
To be what, in their blindness, they miscall
A low fanatic,—superstition's thrall,
Then most contemptible when most sincere.
The Gentle sophist mock'd thy simple creed,
The bigot Jew pursued thee with fierce hate;
E'en faithless brethren, in thine utmost need,
Forsook thee;—thou, meanwhile, didst calmly wait
God's time, content on Earth to toil and bleed,
Till martyrdom should ope Heaven's narrow gate.
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FROM THE GOSPEL.
I
God! who dost the increase grantTo thy labourers here below,
When they water, when they plant,
When the Heavenly seed they sow;
Bless, O Father, bless our toil,
With the sunshine of thy face;—
Fertilize this barren soil
With the dews of love and grace.
II
Thine the harvest, thine the praise,When the crops are gather'd in,
Which, with life-long pains we raise
In this world of shame and sin.
Where we sow 'tis thine to reap—
All our days are seed-time here;—
Ceaselessly at work we keep,
Month by month and year by year.
III
Spring and autumn toil we still—Through the long midsummer light;
Through the winter, dark and chill,
Scattering seed from morn till night.
Now, with zeal's persuasive power,
Life-infusing truth we preach;
Now, for many a patient hour,
In the village schoolroom teach.
IV
Oft beside the social hearthStealthily the seed we sow,—
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Oftener when oppress'd with woe.
Times and seasons watch we still—
Still the best occasions seek,
When to bend the stubborn will,
When the awakening word to speak.
V
So we toil, but toil in vainWhen the dews of grace are dry;
When the fertilizing rain
Lingers in the drouthy sky.
Now in rocky soils we sow—
Hearts from Heaven so far astray,
That, or ere the blade can grow,
Satan steals the seed away.
VI
Some in light and shallow mouldDoth, with fairer promise, fall,—
Ardent minds and uncontroll'd—
Sensitive—but weak withal.
Such, anon, with joy embrace,
Hear and ponder, weep and pray,
Till—when trouble shews its face—
Straight their flimsy faith gives way.
VII
Other seed in deeper soilSinks, and takes abiding root;
But rank thorns the produce spoil,
Choke and mar the genuine fruit.
Worldly care and lust and pride,
Wealth and luxury creep in,
Till the life of life hath died,
Stifled by insidious sin.
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VIII
Thou, the harvest's sovereign Lord!For the seed the soil prepare,
Sun and rain and dews afford,
Till the wish'd-for crop it bear.
Good and honest hearts create,
Swift to hear and firm to hold;
Make our tillage, soon or late,
Bring forth fruit an hundred-fold.
| Poems | |