English

He played by the river when he was young,
He raced with rabbits along the hills,
He fished for minnows, and climbed and swung,
And hooted back at the whippoorwills.
Strong and slender and tall he grew —
And then, one morning, the bugles blew.

Over the hills the summons came,
Over the river's shining rim.
He said that the bugles called his name,
He knew that his country needed him,
And he answered, " Coming! " and marched away
For many a night and many a day.

Perhaps when the marches were hot and long

He must not laugh at his own wheeze:
A snuff box has no right to sneeze.

HE MAY BE six kinds of a liar,
He may be ten kinds of a fool,
He may be a wicked highflyer
Beyond any reason or rule;

There may be a shadow above him
Of ruin and woes to impend,
And I may not respect, but I love him,
Because — well, because he's my friend.

I know he has faults by the billion,
But his faults are a portion of him;
I know that his record's vermilion,

He lives within the hollow wood,
From one clear dell he seldom ranges;
His daily toil in solitude
Revolves, but never changes.

A still old man, with grizzled beard,
Gray eye, bent shape, and smoke-tanned features,
His quiet footstep is not feared
By shyest woodland creatures.

I love to watch the pale blue spire
His scented labour builds above it;
I track the woodland by his fire,
And, seen afar, I love it.

It seems among the serious trees
The emblem of a living pleasure,

He lives! He lives! He lives to bless
Each heart that welcomes Him!
He lives as truly now as when
In shadows cool and dim
He walked along the garden path
All wet with morning dew,
Where sleepy birds were wakening
And fragrant lilies grew.

He lives! He lives! He lives today
As truly as of yore,
When angels rolled away the stone
And opened wide the door.
He lives! He lives! O earth rejoice!
For Jesus lives today,
And, oh, His blessed presence can
Each doubt and fear allay.

He lived in that past Georgian day,
When men were less inclined to say
That “Time is Gold,” and overlay
With toil their pleasure;
He held some land, and dwelt thereon,—
Where, I forget,—the house is gone;
His Christian name, I think, was John,—
His surname, Leisure.

Reynolds has painted him,—a face
Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace,
Fresh-colored, frank, with ne'er a trace
Of trouble shaded;
The eyes are blue, the hair is dressed
In plainest way,—one hand is pressed

He lived amidst th' untrodden ways
To Rydal Lake that lead;

A bard whom there were none to praise,
And very few to read.

Behind a cloud his mystic sense,
Deep hidden, who can spy?
Bright as the night when not a star
Is shining in the sky.

Unread his works--his "Milk White Doe'
With dust is dark and dim;
It's still in Longman's shop, and oh!
The difference to him!

He lifts his hopeful eyes at each new tread,
Dark wells of brown with half his heart in each;
He will not bark, because he is well-bred,
Only one voice can heal the sorry breach.
He scans the faces that he does not know,
One paw uplifted, ear cocked for a sound
Outside his sight. Only he must not go
Away from here; by honor he is bound.
Now he has heard a whistle down the street;
He trembles in a sort of ecstasy,
Dances upon his eager, padding feet,
Straining himself to hear, to feel, to see,

He leadeth me O blessed thought,
O words with heavenly comfort fraught,
Whate'er I do, where'er I be,
Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me.
Chorus:

He leadeth me, he leadeth me,
By his own hand he leadeth me;
His faithful follower I would be,
For by his hand he leadeth me.

Sometimes 'midscenes of deepest gloom,
Sometimes where Eden's bowers bloom,
By waters still, o'er troubled sea,
Still 'tis his hand that leadeth me.
Chorus

Lord, I would clasp thy hand in mine.

He knows when shadows come my way
And penetrate my path.
He knows when I'm the recipient
Of someone's stinging wrath.

He knows when others do rejoice
When hopes are swept away.
He knows as does no other
When words do whip and flay.

He knows the heartache and the woe
Of false accusation too.
There's not a thing that can happen
But that He has been through.

He knows because He was tempted
In all points like as we.
We have such a loving High Priest
A refuge to whom we flee.