Page:Sarah Sheppard - L. E. L.pdf/73



The priest whose heart is in his toil Hath here a task of hope and love; He dwells upon his native soil, He has his native sky above.

Not so beneath this foreign sky; Not so upon this burning strand; Where yonder giant temples lie,* The miracles of mortal hand;

Mighty and beautiful, but given To idols of a creed profane; That cast the shade of earth on heaven, By fancies monstrous, vile and vain.

The votary here must half unlearn The accents of his mother-tongue; Must dwell 'mid strangers, and must earn Fruits from a soil reluctant wrung.

His words on hardened hearts must fall, Hardened till God's appointed hour; Yet he must wait and watch o'er all Till hope grows faith and prayer has power.

And many a grave neglected lies, Where sleep the soldiers of the Lord; Who perished 'neath the sultry skies, Where first they preached that sacred word.

But not in vain—their toil was blest; Life's dearest hope by them was won A blessing is upon their rest, And on the work which they begun.

Yon city,† where our purer creed Was as a thing unnamed, unknown, Has now a sense of deeper need, Has now a place of prayer its own.