Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Return of the Pastor
RETURN OF THE PASTOR.
Thou who on the mighty deep
Didst our friend, our pastor keep,
On the billows' angry breast
Lull him like a babe to rest,
While beneath their watery floor
Thousands sank to rise no more,
Here, within this temple-shrine,
Father! let the praise be thine.
Didst our friend, our pastor keep,
On the billows' angry breast
Lull him like a babe to rest,
While beneath their watery floor
Thousands sank to rise no more,
Here, within this temple-shrine,
Father! let the praise be thine.
Thou who from a foreign sky,
Strangers' hearth and strangers' eye,
Bore him to his native strand,
To the green hills of our land,
To the home where love and prayer
Watch'd for him with ceaseless care,
Here, within this temple-shrine,
Father! let the praise be thine.
Strangers' hearth and strangers' eye,
Bore him to his native strand,
To the green hills of our land,
To the home where love and prayer
Watch'd for him with ceaseless care,
Here, within this temple-shrine,
Father! let the praise be thine.
Sickness had an arrow dire
Dipp'd for him in fever's fire,
Spread an ambush dark with strife
Round the fountain-head of life,
Thou! who from the yawning grave
Raised him up to guide and save,
Here, within this temple-shrine,
Father! let the praise be thine.
Dipp'd for him in fever's fire,
Spread an ambush dark with strife
Round the fountain-head of life,
Thou! who from the yawning grave
Raised him up to guide and save,
Here, within this temple-shrine,
Father! let the praise be thine.