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L. M.



O fairest-born of Love and Light,

Yet bending brow and eye severe

On all which pains the holy sight,

Or wounds the pure and perfect ear,—

The generous feeling, pure and warm,

Which owns the rights of all divine,

The pitying heart, the helping arm,

The prompt self-sacrifice, are thine!

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,

How fade the lines of caste and birth!

How equal in their sufferings lie

The groaning multitudes of earth!

Still to a stricken brother true,

Whatever clime hath nurtured him;

As stooped to heal the wounded Jew

The worshipper of Gerizim.

In holy words which cannot die,

In thoughts which angels leaned to know,

Christ gave thy message from on high,

Thy mission to a world of woe.

That voice’s echo hath not died;

From the blue lake of Galilee,

From Tabor’s lonely mountain-side,

It calls a struggling world to thee.

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