Poems (Shipton)/Meliora
MELIORA.
"The disciple is not above his Master."—Luke vi. 40.
"That no man should be moved by these afflictions: for yourselves know that we are appointed thereunto."—1 Thess. iii. 3.
The wilderness way I wandered Had many a valley and hill; When I heard a song in the silence: Its melody lingereth still. It breathed o'er my sinking spirit— "Meliora! Child, look up! Follow thy Master's footsteps; Drink of thy Master's cup."
Sadly I smiled as I answered— "How can I follow Him now? The light is gone from the mountain, And wildly the night winds blow. I wield no sword for our Leader; No banner my weak hands hold: I but clasp it close to my bosom, And hide in its crimson fold."
"Droop not to-day. Meliora! Drink of the chalice He fills: Grace is laid up for the weakest, Strength for the service He wills. 'All things are yours'; yea, the glory, The darkness, the desert, to-day; And He who hath trod it before thee Hath hallowed thy toilsome way.
"Fight 'gainst the power of evil; Up to the girded race! Each hath a charge in the temple, All in the kingdom a place. Wait where thy Master hath called thee, Patiently suffer His will; Enough, oh, enough, if He bade thee Be silent, and helpless, and still.
"Brave hearts fall in the battle, The race and the chaplet won; And some with the standard flying Must rally the ranks alone; Some lie on the wayside wounded, And some with their Leader rest: Who doeth the will of the Father Serveth the Master best.
"So keep thy watch at the portal; The Master hath bid thee wait, And speak the word that He gives thee, As wanderers pass the gate. When the sneer of the scoffer moves thee; Meliora! Child, look up! Follow thy Master's footsteps; Drink of thy Master's cup.
"A vessel meet for His service The Potter must frame and mould; There's the fining-pot for the silver, And the furnace-flame for the gold: But One watches o'er the fire— A watch that thou canst not share; Look up! Look up! Meliora! The Lord whom thou lov'st is there."
Over the world's wide waters The dove could her message bring; And still at our curtained casement A minstrel waiteth to sing. There's many a bird at the threshold Who bringeth a song in the night; And we praise the love that hath lent him, As we follow his upward flight.
Thus often my night-watch keeping, In moments with sadness fraught, Sweet words to my drooping spirit Have the billows of ocean brought. Greetings from heavenly kindred I never on earth shall see, And blessings from friends long parted Are songs like my bird's to me.
And low they sing, "Meliora! The journey is shortening home; To-night we are nearer the Glory, And brighter the days to come. Secure in the arms that bear thee, Meliora! take thy rest: Who doeth the will of the Father Serveth the Master best."