 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
To my Son
When fresh from God, at that old Hall,
I first beheld thy infant face,
And praised the gracious Lord of all
For joy no sorrow can erase;
I clasped thee with the warm embrace
Of love that with all time shall blend,
And in eternity find place,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.
I first beheld thy infant face,
And praised the gracious Lord of all
For joy no sorrow can erase;
I clasped thee with the warm embrace
Of love that with all time shall blend,
And in eternity find place,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.
Full soon the years began to call
Thy willing feet in ways of grace,
And thy young fancy to enthral
With stirring records of our race:
'Twas thine the poet's page to trace,
The stream of History to ascend,
And Truth's still-changing forms to chase,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.
Thy willing feet in ways of grace,
And thy young fancy to enthral
With stirring records of our race:
'Twas thine the poet's page to trace,
The stream of History to ascend,
And Truth's still-changing forms to chase,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.
Now manhood's work, as with a wall,
Divides us for a little space,
But, till the evening shadows fall,
We move along with equal pace:
On the same Faith our hopes we base,
At the same Altar humbly bend,
And prayers and praises interlace,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.
Son, for high service let us brace
Our spirits, and our powers expend;
Happy the souls in such a case,
My son, my pupil, and my friend!
Divides us for a little space,
But, till the evening shadows fall,
We move along with equal pace:
On the same Faith our hopes we base,
At the same Altar humbly bend,
And prayers and praises interlace,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.
58
Our spirits, and our powers expend;
Happy the souls in such a case,
My son, my pupil, and my friend!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |