Heroes and kings, obey the charm,
Withdraw the proud high-reaching arm,
There is an oath on high:
That ne’er on brow of mortal birth
Shall blend again the crowns of earth,
Nor in according cry
Her many voices mingling own
One tyrant Lord, one idol throne:
But to His triumphs soon
He shall descend, who rules above,
And the pure language of His love,
All tongues of men shall tune.
Nor let Ambition heartless mourn;
When Babel’s very ruins burn,
Her high desires may breathe;—
O’ercome thyself, and thou mayst share
With Christ His Father’s throne, and wear
The world’s imperial wreath.
Tuesday in Whitsun-week.
When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them.
St. John x. 4.
(Addressed to Candidates for Ordination.)
“Lord, in Thy field I work all day,
I read, I teach, I warn, I pray,
And yet these wilful wandering sheep
Within Thy fold I cannot keep.
“I journey, yet no step is won—
Alas! the weary course I run!
Like sailors shipwrecked in their dreams,
All powerless and benighted seems.”
What? wearied out with half a life?
Scared with this smooth unbloody strife?
Think where thy coward hopes had flown
Had Heaven held out the martyr’s crown.
How couldst thou hang upon the cross,
To whom a weary hour is loss?
Or how the thorns and scourging brook
Who shrinkest from a scornful look?
Yet ere thy craven spirit faints,
Hear thine own King, the King of Saints;
Though thou wert toiling in the grave,
’Tis He can cheer thee, He can save.