Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,55
Till on his life the sickness weighed;
And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer;
And rising from the sickness drear
He grew a priest, and now stood here.60
To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.
"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell
And set thee here; I did not well.
"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,65
Vain was thy dream of many a year.
"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped—
Creation's chorus stopped!
"Go back and praise again
The early way, while I remain.70
"With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creation's pausing strain.
"Back to the cell and poor employ;
Resume the craftsman and the boy!"