Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PARSON'S COMFORTER, by FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PARSON'S COMFORTER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The parson goes about his daily ways
Last Line: That comforts him who comes to comfort thee?
Subject(s): Clergy; Death; Life; Priests; Rabbis; Ministers; Bishops; Dead, The


THE parson goes about his daily ways,
With all the parish troubles on his head,
And takes his Bible out, and reads and prays
Beside the sufferer's chair, the dying bed.

Whate'er the secret skeleton may be --
Doubt, drink, or debt -- that keeps within his lair,
When parson comes, the owner turns the key,
And lets him out to "squeak and gibber" there.

It seems a possibility unguessed --
Or little borne in mind, if haply known --
That he who cheers in trouble all the rest
May, now and then, have troubles of his own.

Alas! God knows he has his foes to fight,
His closet-atomy, severe and grim;
All others claim his comfort as of right,
But, hapless parson! who shall comfort him?

A friend he has to whom he may repair
(Besides that One who carries all our grief),
And when his load is more than he can bear,
He seeks his comforter, and finds relief.

He finds a cottage, very poor and small,
The meanest tenement where all are mean;
Yet decency and order mark it all, --
The panes are bright, the steps severely clean.

He lifts the latch; his comforter is there,
Propt in the bed, where now for weeks she stays,
Or, haply, seated, knitting, in her chair,
If this be one of those rare "better days."

A tiny woman, stunted, bent, and thin;
Her features sharp with pain that always wakes;
The nimble hand she holds the needles in
Is warped and wrenched by dire rheumatic aches.

Sometimes she gets a grateful change of pain,
Sometimes for half a day she quits her bed;
And -- lying, sitting, crawled to bed again --
Always she knits; her needles win her bread.

Too well she knows what 't is a meal to miss,
Often the grate has not a coal of fire:
She has no hope of better things than this;
The future darkens, suffering grows more dire.

Where will they take her, if betide it should
Her stiffened hands the needles cannot ply?
Not to the workhouse, -- God is very good;
He knows her weakness -- he will let her die.

Sometimes, but seldom, neighbors hear her moan,
Wrung by some sudden stress of fiercer pain;
Often they hear her pray, but none has known,
No single soul has heard her lips complain.

The parson enters, and a gracious smile
Over the poor, pinched features brightly grows;
She lets the needles rest a little while;
"You're kindly welcome, sir!" Ah, that he knows.

He takes the Book, and opens at the place --
No need to ask her which her favorite psalm:
And, as he reads, upon her tortured face
There comes a holy rapture, deep and calm.

She murmurs softly with him as he reads
(She can repeat the Psalter through at will):
"He feeds me in green pastures, and he leads, --
He leads me forth beside the waters still.

"Yea, through death's shadowy valley though I tread,
I will not fear, for Thou dost show the way;
Thy holy oil is poured upon my head,
Thy loving-kindness follows me for aye."

The reading's done, and now the prayer is said;
He bids farewell, and leaves her to her pain:
But grace and blessing on his soul are shed, --
He goes forth comforted and strong again.

He takes his way, on divers errands bound,
Abler to plead, and warn, and comfort woes;
That is the darkest house on all his round,
And yet, be sure, the happiest house he knows.

Will it not ease, poor soul, thy restless bed,
And make thee more content, if that can be,
To know that from thy suffering balm is shed,
That comforts him who comes to comfort thee?





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