[THE NEW SAMARITAN.]
A weary Traveller walk’d his way,
With grief and want and pain opprest.
His looks were sad, his locks were grey;
He sought for food, he sigh’d for rest.
A wealthy grazier pass’d—“Attend,”
The sufferer cried—“some aid allow!”—
“Thou art not of my parish, Friend;
Nor am I in mine office now.”
He dropt, and more impatient pray’d—
A mild adviser heard the word: 10
“Be patient, Friend!” he kindly said,
“And wait the leisure of the Lord.”
Another comes!—“Turn, stranger, turn!”
“Not so!” replied a voice: “I mean
“The candle of the Lord to burn
With mine own flock on Save-all Green;
“To war with Satan, thrust for thrust;
To gain my lamb he led astray;
The Spirit drives me: on I must—
Yea, woe is me, if I delay!” 20
But Woman came! by Heaven design’d
To ease the heart that throbs with pain—
She gave relief—abundant—kind—
And bade him go in peace again.