THE SHEPHERD

BEN. HAWORTH-BOOTH

Ah , gentle shepherd of the moor and hill,
Though cold the comfort of the wintry wold,
Though frozen be the fountain and the rill,
And wolves await the wanderer from the fold,—
We hear thy mountain horn and fearful hearts grow
bold.

Thee, too, the ravening pack of wolves or men
Pursue with poisoned fangs and baneful breath:
"Is he not dead?" they cry. "We knew him when
He plied his father's trade at Nazareth.
Let him be crucified; he said 'there is no death'!"

But shepherd-like he stands upon the starlit steep,
Above the fading mists, the phantom fear:
Perchance to pray, to watch; perchance to weep.
Starlight yet lingers on his lips and tears,
While earth awaits his words, the message of the
years.