Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/105

Whose kindling eye, and reverent air,
Their love and gratitude declare,
For him, who long with fervent tone
Had made their joys and woes his own.
Nor he that honest warmth restrains
Meet payment for his toils and pains;
Unskilled with cold or formal art
To freeze the current of the heart,
Or frown on even an infant's zeal
The pressure of his hand to feel.
 
As o'er the sacred desk he bends
Each glance toward him confiding bends,
For though in quaint or homely phrase
The great salvation he displays,
Yet thoughts of holy love and zeal
Some touch of eloquence reveal,
And changing brow, and starting tear,
Bespeak that eloquence sincere.

Meanwhile, with well-uplifted heart,
The old precentor bears a part;
And waking loud the ancient chime,
His hand high raised to beat the time,
Calls forth no wild Italian trill,
But childhood's accents, sweetly shrill,
And quavering age, with tresses white,
In one full burst of praise unite.