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The Book of Praise.
I had not power to ask his name, Whither he went, or whence he came, Yet there was something in his eye That won my love, I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread, He entered ; not a word he spake;
Just perishing for want of bread ; I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate ; but gave me part again :
Mine was an angel's portion then ;
For, while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone ;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst, He heard it, saw it hurrying on ;
I ran to raise the sufferer up \
Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.
'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof; I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof; I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest, Laid him on my own couch to rest; Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd In Eden's garden while I dream'd.
Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, I found him by the highway-side :
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, Revived his spirit, and supplied |
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