OTHER SHEEP.
Pagan, Papist, Protestant!
What is that to thee or me?
Make not Heaven’s mercy scant
With thy pampered bigotry.
Who made thee the judge to be
Of thy brother’s destiny?
Deem not that thy shibboleth
Holds the keys of life and death.
Ah, that secret, sullen sign!
Call it not decree divine;
For a letter, more, or less,
Measures not God’s tenderness.
“Other sheep I have,” said One
Who was more than Mary’s son;—
Eyes as blind as thine shall see
His amazing charity.
When it claims the judgment-throne,
What is creed but craft and cant?
God will surely know His own:—
Pagan, Papist, Protestant.
BY MANY PATHS.
By many names the one true God is known;
By many shrines man’s faith in Him is shown;—
Varuna, Vishnu, Agni, Indra,—One!
As stars confess the all-sustaining sun.
By many paths true, humble hearts are brought
At last to Him whom they in darkness sought.
All lands alike the Father’s mercies share;
No age was ever orphaned of His care;—
For souls sincere, forever has sufficed
The boundless merit of the blessed Christ;
And over all forever shall extend
The love that knows no measure and no end.
[[A]]POOR LITTLE JOE!
“Poor little Joe!” the poet said,
When it was told him she was dead;—
“Poor little Joe!” the warm tears start
From the deep fountains of his heart;—
“Poor little Joe!” he loved her so.
“Poor little Joe!” he knows too well
What darkness on his darling fell,
When, in her loneliness and pain,
“Papa!” she called,—but called in vain;—
“Poor little Joe!” she missed him so.
“Poor little Joe!” she loved him so,
And wished to stay, yet longed to go;—
One fond caress, one sweet “Good-night,”
Had made the way to heaven so bright!
“Poor little Joe!” she loved him so.
“Poor little Joe!” was all he said,
When it was told him she was dead;
But everywhere the warm tears start
Responsive to his breaking heart;—
“Poor little Joe!” we loved her so.
[A]. Josephine Kipling—eldest child of Rudyard Kipling.