St. Matthew the Apostle

From fisher's net, from fig-tree's shade,
God gathers whom He will;
Touched by His grace, all men are made
His purpose to fulfil.

But not alone from shady nooks,
Fresh with life's noon-tide dew,
From humble walks, or quiet books,
Calls He His chosen few.

Out of the busiest haunts of life,
Its most engrossing cares,
Its nightly travail, daily strife,
Self-woven golden snares, —

He for His vineyard doth provide,
His gentle voice doth move
The world's keen votaries to His side
With its persuasive love.

So Matthew left his golden gains,
At the great Master's call;
His soul the ' love of Christ' constrains
Freely to give up all.

The tide of life was at its flow,
Rose higher day by day;
But he a higher life would know
Than that which round him lay.

Nor fortune, bright with fav'ring smile.
Can tempt him with her store;
Too long she did his heart beguile,
He will be hers no more.

To one sweet Voice alone he'll list,
And, at its ' Follow me,'
Apostle, and Evangelist,
Henceforth for Christ is he.

O Saviour! when prosperity
Makes this world hard to leave,
And all its ' pomps and vanity'
Their meshes round us weave:

When Mammon with its subtle chain,
Fair, because forged in gold,
The soul, which up to Heav'n would strain,
In captive thrall doth hold:

When life with all its balmiest hours
In sunshine round us lies;
And bee-like, 'mid a thousand flowers,
Fond fickle fancy flies:

O grant us grace, that to Thy call
We may obedient be;
And, cheerfully forsaking all,
May follow only Thee.