POOR wand'rers, ye are sore distress'd To find that path which Christ has bless'd, Track'd by His saintly throng; Each claims to trust his own weak will, Blind idol! -- so ye languish still, All wranglers and all wrong. He saw of old, and met your need, Granting you prophets of His creed, The throes of fear to swage; They fenced the rich bequest He made, And sacred hands have safe convey'd Their charge from age to age. Wand'rers! come home! obey the call! A Mother pleads, who ne'er let fall One grain of Holy Truth; Warn you and win she shall and must, For now she lifts her from the dust, To reign as in her youth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR WALT WHITMAN by DAVID IGNATOW AUTUMN SONG by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI SONNET: 67 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 35 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT SNOWLESS WINTER by MERTA M. BROOKINGS FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) ODE: ACME AND SEPTIMUS; OR, LOVE DUET by GAIUS VALERIUS CATULLUS |