St. Bartholomew the Apostle

Hidden close from human eye
Violets do love to lie,
Only for the tell-tale air,
No one could discover where:
But there's an Eye which on them dwells
With sunshine, soft and true,
A Hand which fills their purple bells
With drops of morning dew.

Tho' they love the shady nook,
And with bee, and babbling brook
Communing, with fragrant sigh,
Live, and bloom, and breathe, and die;
No gloomy anchorites are they,
In lonely severance sad,
But in their gentle, quiet way,
They make God's creatures glad.

So His hidden saints abound,
Scattered everywhere around,
Violets of Heavenly birth,
Perfuming all parts of earth;
Fed by the sun and dews of Heaven,
They sleep not night nor day,
Still giving back, what they are given,
In their own quiet way.

Theirs no plea for public place,
Modesty their fairest grace,
So to soothe, that none may know
Whence the healing perfumes flow;
Themselves, unseen by human eye,
By human hand unsoiled,
Their soul's immortal purity
By thought of self unspoiled.

There to grow in grace and love,
Fitter for their place above;
Useful in the humblest way,
Fragrant even in decay;
And all the while their covenant
With Heaven and earth fulfil,
The only thing of God they want,
Power to do His will.

So beneath the fig tree's shade,
Where of old Nathaniel paid
To the Lord his hidden vows;
Thro' its broad umbrageous boughs,
Upon the saint's lone hour of need,
Fell Heaven's approving smile,
And owned ' an Israelite indeed,'
'In whom' there was ' no guile.

Almost from himself concealed,
Now to God he stands revealed;
Now the blessed fruit receiving,
Which had grown from meek believing,
The hidden saint his Lord ordains
His messenger to be,
To gather in far richer gains,
And ‘greater things' to see.

Thence the saint, unknown and lowly,
Set apart by God, and holy,
Changed in office, and in name,
Saint Bartholomew became;
And on his day, the Church doth pray
Of God, in Jesu's name,
'To love that word, which he believed,'
'Preach, and receive the same.'