JOHN THE PRIEST.
John the Priest of Corna dale
Late crowned with scholar's bays;
Now sent to teach a rustic flock,
Had cursed his dreary days.
Far on the slopes of North Barrule
The Corna valley lies;
And far remote the lonely keeil
That seems so near the skies.
So few and simple were the folk
And scattered through the vale—
What honour should a scholar find
In savage Corna dale?
Now John the Priest he laid him down
Upon his pallet bare;
And John he heard or dreamed he heard
Soft voices in the air.
"Glory to God" they sang once more
As heralds from on high;
And John he rose or dreamed he rose,
But nought could he espy.
Gray sheets of mist were rolling up,
And pouring through the vale;
When through a rift shone steps of gold—
From Heaven to Corna dale.
And John he saw, or thought he saw,
Or dreamed he thought he saw,
His Master on those shining steps,
And bowed himself in awe.
"My Corna sheep are dear to me
As any in the fold,
My Corna dale is near to me
As Lebanon of old."