Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 57

Then the hireling replied, "Here you have at your side All your flock save this one little sheep.

Are the ninety and nine, All so safe and so fine, Not enough for the shepherd to keep?"

Then the shepherd replied, "Ah! this lamb from my side Presses near, very near, to my heart.

Not its value in pay Makes me urge in this way, But the longings and achings of heart."

"Let me wait till the day, O good shepherd, I pray; For I shudder to go in the dark On the mountain so high And its precipice nigh 'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark."

Then the shepherd said, "No; Surely some one must go Who can rescue my lamb from the cold, From the wolf's hungry maw And the lion's fierce paw And restore it again to the fold."

Then the shepherd goes out With his cloak girt about And his rod and his staff in his hand.

What cares he for the cold If his sheep to the fold He can bring from the dark mountain land?

You can hear his clear voice As the mountains rejoice, "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Up the hillside so steep, Into caverns so deep, "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Now he hears its weak "baa,"

And he answers it, "Ah!

Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!"

Then its answering bleat Hurries on his glad feet, And his arms gather up his lost sheep.

Wet and cold on his breast The lost lamb found its rest As he bore it adown to the fold.

And the ninety and nine Bleat for joy down the line, That it's safe from the wolf and the cold.

Then he said to his friends, "Now let joy make amends For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed-- For the pelting of sleet And my sore, weary feet, For I've found the dear lamb that was lost."

Let the hirelings upbraid For the nights that He stayed On the mountains so rugged and high.

Surely never a jeer From my lips shall one hear, For--that poor lonely lambkin--was--I.

While the eons shall roll O'er my glad ransomed soul I will praise the Good Shepherd above, For a place on His breast, For its comfort and rest, For His wonderful, wonderful love.

_D. N. Howe._

A Sermon in Rhyme

If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow; Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend--till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long; Why should one that thrills your heart Lack that joy it may impart?

If you hear a prayer that moves you By its humble pleading tone, Join it. Do not let the seeker Bow before his G.o.d alone; Why should not your brother share The strength of "two or three" in prayer?

If you see the hot tears falling From a loving brother's eyes, Share them, and by sharing, Own your kinship with the skies; Why should anyone be glad, When his brother's heart is sad?

If a silver laugh goes rippling Through the sunshine on his face, Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying, For both grief and joy a place; There's health and goodness in the mirth In which an honest laugh has birth.

If your work is made more easy By a friendly helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly, Ere the darkness veil the land.

Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer?

Scatter thus your seed of kindness, All enriching as you go-- Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver; He will make each seed to grow.

So, until its happy end, Your life shall never lack a friend.

The Fortunate Isles

You sail and you seek for the Fortunate Isles, The old Greek Isles of the yellow bird's song?

Then steer right on through the watery miles, Straight on, straight on, and you can't go wrong.

Nay, not to the left, nay, not to the right; But on, straight on, and the Isles are in sight, The Fortunate Isles, where the yellow birds sing And life lies girt with a golden ring.

These Fortunate Isles, they are not far; They lie within reach of the lowliest door; You can see them gleam by the twilight star; You can hear them sing by the moon's white sh.o.r.e, Nay, never look back! Those leveled gravestones, They were landing steps; they were steps unto thrones Of glory for souls that have sailed before And have set white feet on the fortunate sh.o.r.e.

And what are the names of the Fortunate Isles?

Why, Duty and Love and a large content.

Lo! there are the isles of the watery miles That G.o.d let down from the firmament; Lo! Duty and Love, and a true man's trust; Your forehead to G.o.d and your feet in the dust; Lo! Duty and Love, and a sweet babe's smiles, And there, O friend, are the Fortunate Isles.

_Joaquin Miller._

What the Choir Sang About the New Bonnet

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet, With a ribbon, and a feather, and a bit of lace upon it; And that the other maidens of the little town might know it, She thought she'd go to meeting the next Sunday just to show it.

But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime, The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time; So when 'twas fairly tied, all the bells had stopped their ringing, And when she came to meeting, sure enough the folks were singing.

So this foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door; And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them down before.

"Hallelujah! hallelujah!" sang the choir above her head.

"Hardly knew you! hardly knew you!" were the words she thought they said.

This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross, That she gave her little mouth a twist, her little head a toss; For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet, With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it.

And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer, But pattered down the silent street, and hurried up the stair, Till she reached her little bureau, and in a band-box on it, Had hidden, safe from critics' eyes, her foolish little bonnet.

Which proves, my little maidens, that each of you will find In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind; And the silly little head, that's filled with silly little airs, Will never get a blessing from sermon or from prayers.

_M. T. Morrison._

Work Thou for Pleasure