Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/313

And some strike sparks of fire from flint,
And gather leaves, and heap dry wood,
And blow with powerful breath until
The flame leaps up: and, full of cheer,
Some take the quarter of a ram
And turn it on the hazel spit,
And from their knapsacks draw white cheese
To make a feast. Does any thirst?
The cold Moratcha gives him drink.
Needs he a cup? He has two hands!
And when again the morning dawns
The voice of shepherds sound from far,
And tinkling rams' bells give reply.
Then lo! another Shepherd comes,
'The humble leader of his flock.
No gold or silver ornaments
He brings wth him. He comes with naught
But his black frock, and dauntless soul.
He has no splendid retinue,
No glittering lamps of brass or gold,
Nor bells that chime from lofty towers.
He has the sun's lamp for his light;
The ram's bell rings his call to prayer;
The heavens make his glorious dome;
His altars are the mountain peaks;
His incense is the breath of flowers
That grow where heroes' blood was spilled
For Liberty.

The man of God draws near the troop,
And brings his blessing to their midst,
And standing on a mighty rock,
The good old man begins to speak—
(Cold was the rock, but his heart was warm)
"My sons, ye who have pledged your vows,
This is the land that gave you birth;
Our land is rough, but it is dear,
The land that brought our fathers forth,
And in whose lap you all were reared.
For you there is no land so fair.
Your grandsires' blood has watered her,
Your fathers lost their lives for her,