Winfred
A CHURCH BALLAD .
H E sits beneath some spreading tree,
An aged, reverend man,
With book of God upon his knee,
Its open page to scan.
Thuringia's forest-leaves are stirred,
As the pure gale goes by,
But sweeter incense fans his heart,
" The Spirit from on high. "
The Prophets! ah, they speak of Him ,
To whom he long has clung,
Whose praises, now his eye is dim,
Still linger on his tongue.
The Prophets! ah, with glowing strain,
They picture latter days,
When green-clad earth, and distant main,
Shall bask in Gospel rays.
Isaiah rolls the tide of song,
Unveils the distant years,
Till Jacob's Star — that beacon blest,
In blazing pomp appears.
And Jeremy forgets to weep,
While musing of the hour, —
When Christ, the righteous Branch, shall reign,
And kingdoms own his power.
And he who sat by Chebar's flood,
In famed Chaldea's clime,
And saw the visions of his God,
In retinue sublime; —
Ezekiel — the priestly bard,
Describes the streams of grace,
Which issue in a healing tide,
From out the holy place.
Thus, as the Prophets all unfold
The visions bright they see,
And robe in garniture of gold,
A kingdom yet to be: —
That aged man — that Priest of God,
As gushing tear-drops start,
Shuts up the Book his Master gave,
And folds it to his heart.
Long has he toiled and plead with men,
The sacred Three to own,
And oft Bavaria's wilds have thrilled,
To that impassioned tone.
And even yet, in frosty age,
The standard still he rears,
And spreads abroad the seed of truth,
And waters it with tears.
*****
Another scene — a river's bank,
A crowd with passions high,
And gleaming swords, and halberds keen,
Flash 'neath the ruddy sky.
He falls — with prayer upon his lips,
That Priest with locks so white,
And all that Prophets wrote of bliss ,
Comes bursting on his sight.
He falls — that Martyr of his Lord,
Faithful in youth and age,
Who oft amid Thuringia's wilds,
Had scanned the sacred page.
And now, amid the worthies high,
Who passed to Heaven in blood,
We trace, in living lines, the name,
Of Boniface the Good.
H E sits beneath some spreading tree,
An aged, reverend man,
With book of God upon his knee,
Its open page to scan.
Thuringia's forest-leaves are stirred,
As the pure gale goes by,
But sweeter incense fans his heart,
" The Spirit from on high. "
The Prophets! ah, they speak of Him ,
To whom he long has clung,
Whose praises, now his eye is dim,
Still linger on his tongue.
The Prophets! ah, with glowing strain,
They picture latter days,
When green-clad earth, and distant main,
Shall bask in Gospel rays.
Isaiah rolls the tide of song,
Unveils the distant years,
Till Jacob's Star — that beacon blest,
In blazing pomp appears.
And Jeremy forgets to weep,
While musing of the hour, —
When Christ, the righteous Branch, shall reign,
And kingdoms own his power.
And he who sat by Chebar's flood,
In famed Chaldea's clime,
And saw the visions of his God,
In retinue sublime; —
Ezekiel — the priestly bard,
Describes the streams of grace,
Which issue in a healing tide,
From out the holy place.
Thus, as the Prophets all unfold
The visions bright they see,
And robe in garniture of gold,
A kingdom yet to be: —
That aged man — that Priest of God,
As gushing tear-drops start,
Shuts up the Book his Master gave,
And folds it to his heart.
Long has he toiled and plead with men,
The sacred Three to own,
And oft Bavaria's wilds have thrilled,
To that impassioned tone.
And even yet, in frosty age,
The standard still he rears,
And spreads abroad the seed of truth,
And waters it with tears.
*****
Another scene — a river's bank,
A crowd with passions high,
And gleaming swords, and halberds keen,
Flash 'neath the ruddy sky.
He falls — with prayer upon his lips,
That Priest with locks so white,
And all that Prophets wrote of bliss ,
Comes bursting on his sight.
He falls — that Martyr of his Lord,
Faithful in youth and age,
Who oft amid Thuringia's wilds,
Had scanned the sacred page.
And now, amid the worthies high,
Who passed to Heaven in blood,
We trace, in living lines, the name,
Of Boniface the Good.
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