THE PRISONER OF THE LORD.
89
"Thy brethren toil in fields afar,
And long for thy harp's sweet tone,
But hidden within my sanctuary,
Thy service hath well been done.
And long for thy harp's sweet tone,
But hidden within my sanctuary,
Thy service hath well been done.
"My wanderers rest 'neath the sea-girt rock
To list to the minstrel's strain,
And hearts bowed down by their earthly toil
Take courage and hope again.
To list to the minstrel's strain,
And hearts bowed down by their earthly toil
Take courage and hope again.
"But—give me thy harp—'tis all unstrung;
Go forth to thy chosen lot;
The Master has need of His prison bird,
But the prisoner heeds Him not!
Go forth to thy chosen lot;
The Master has need of His prison bird,
But the prisoner heeds Him not!
"Choose now what seemeth the better part,
And glad may thy service be;
But never so dear in the sunny noon
As thy midnight song to me."
And glad may thy service be;
But never so dear in the sunny noon
As thy midnight song to me."
The fetters fell from the maiden's hands
As the midnight Guest drew nigh;
The threshold is past—she standeth free
In the joy of liberty!
As the midnight Guest drew nigh;
The threshold is past—she standeth free
In the joy of liberty!
One moment she gazed on the wounded Hand
That opened the bolted door;
Then back she turned to her star-lit cell,
And the chain she weeping wore.
That opened the bolted door;
Then back she turned to her star-lit cell,
And the chain she weeping wore.
