POOR wand'rers, ye are sore distress'd To find that path which Christ has bless'd, Track'd by His saintly throng; Each claims to trust his own weak will, Blind idol! -- so ye languish still, All wranglers and all wrong. He saw of old, and met your need, Granting you prophets of His creed, The throes of fear to swage; They fenced the rich bequest He made, And sacred hands have safe convey'd Their charge from age to age. Wand'rers! come home! obey the call! A Mother pleads, who ne'er let fall One grain of Holy Truth; Warn you and win she shall and must, For now she lifts her from the dust, To reign as in her youth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GILLYFLOWER OF GOLD by WILLIAM MORRIS (1834-1896) ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 64 by PHILIP SIDNEY IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ by ALFRED TENNYSON THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: EL HARITH by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE CONTINUOUS PERFORMANCE by BERTON BRALEY SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 19 by BLISS CARMAN A REMINISCENCE by JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE A REFLECTION ON ODES: BOOK II, 10 BY HORACE by WILLIAM COWPER |