To the Same

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind,
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,
A wild, neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine,
Daughter of Christ! but His, whose love divine
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,
Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear His tidings! From thy morn of youth,
For this were all thy journeyings; and the close
Of that long path, heaven’s own bright sabbath-rest,
Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour’s breast