 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
To a Friend at Tunis
NEAR TO THE ANCIENT CARTHAGE, AND TO HIPPO, WHERE S. AUGUSTINE WAS BISHOP AND WROTE “THE CITY OF GOD”
At Catharine Hall, where first we met,
In life's fresh morning, you and I,
The stream of men, set after set,
Like Cam's own flood, still glideth by:
The elms still lift their boughs on high,
Beneath them gowns flit to and fro,
As once, before our youthful eye,
My friend of forty years ago!
In life's fresh morning, you and I,
The stream of men, set after set,
Like Cam's own flood, still glideth by:
The elms still lift their boughs on high,
Beneath them gowns flit to and fro,
As once, before our youthful eye,
My friend of forty years ago!
Those studious days you can't forget,
Wandering alone, where ruined lie
The stones of Carthage, 'mid the fret
Of Time's far waves that sadly sigh:
But of “God's City” in the sky
Augustine bids sweet thoughts to flow
And cheer you, as you homeward hie,
My friend of forty years ago!
Wandering alone, where ruined lie
The stones of Carthage, 'mid the fret
Of Time's far waves that sadly sigh:
95
Augustine bids sweet thoughts to flow
And cheer you, as you homeward hie,
My friend of forty years ago!
I, closed within the narrow net
Of circumstance until I die,
Do duties that bring no regret,
But, while they weary, satisfy:
My Church tower 'mid the trees you spy;
God's praises daily sound below;
Our glory is our ministry,
My friend of forty years ago!
Of circumstance until I die,
Do duties that bring no regret,
But, while they weary, satisfy:
My Church tower 'mid the trees you spy;
God's praises daily sound below;
Our glory is our ministry,
My friend of forty years ago!
Truth stands unchanged, though centuries fly;
Augustine's Gospel we too know,
And clasp it for eternity,
My friend of forty years ago!
Augustine's Gospel we too know,
And clasp it for eternity,
My friend of forty years ago!
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