A SHEPHERD from a mountain’s steep
Beheld a little wand’ring sheep;
With anxious eye he watch’d it long,
Creeping the briars and thorns among;
And oft he wip’d a tear away,
To think the careless thing would stray,
Far from the fold’s refreshing fountain,
Upon the summit of the mountain.
The Shepherd’s face was sad and pale,
He knew that wolves lurk’d in the vale:
Many were lost, who that way went,
Which all his care could not prevent;
And many a mangl’d fleece display’d
Where the poor victims were betray’d.
The wand’ring thing could not perceive
What made the Shepherd’s bosom grieve:
A rav’ning Monster crouching near,
In ambush lay–the Lamb was dear,
Dear as the drops that fed his heart–
The Monster made a sudden start:
The trembling Shepherd started too,
On the swift wings of pity flew,
But much he fear’d, a bri’ry alley
Parted the mountain from the valley,
And ere its mazes could be cross’d,
His much-lov’d treasure might be lost.
Urg’d on by such intense desire,
He heeded not the rending briar;
One thing alone could now afflict him,
The danger of the thoughtless victim;
Amidst the tangling thorns he rush’d,
From many a wound the crimson gush’d,
Down trickling from his temples, met
The agonizing tear, that wet
His gentle breast! From ev’ry part
The stream of life was seen to start;
His hands, his feet. his side, his head,
Severely torn, profusely bled.
“With garments dyed,” and sorely rent,
Onward he press’d, his eye full bent
Upon this dearly-rescu’d Sheep.
Oh! ‘twould have made an angel weep,
To view the anguish of that eye,
Or hear the Shepherd’s bursting sigh!
With feelings such as none can tell,
He gain’d the entrance of the dell,
Just as the Wolf with eager eyes
Was springing on his helpless prize:
A moment later had been death,–
He scarcely breath’d a second breath,
But caught the dear one to his breast,
And hid him in his blood-stain’d vest!
The rav’ning Monster back recoil’d,
He saw the murd’rous project foil’d,
Nor brook’d it tamely: vengeance rose,
To tenfold murder quickly grows,
Which burst in one malignant storm;
When fast’ning on the Shepherd’s form,
He op’d another pouring flood,
Then darted to the shelt’ring wood,
The fatal wound indeed was deep,
But he had sav’d his wand’ring Sheep!
Traversing back with breathless haste,
Athwart the dreary howling waste,
Again through thorns and briars he rush’d,
Again the trickling current gush’d;
He felt all o’er one fest’ring wound,
Each step incarnadin’d the ground
Within there throbb’d a deadlier smart,
The Monster’s fangs had reach’d his heart;
His tender heart! A chasm wide,
Sent forth the streaming vital tide;
The Lamb was drench’d within its fountain,
As slow he bore him up the mountain:
But human nature can’t sustain,
Save to one point of racking pain.
The Shepherd utter’d no complaint,
But fainter grew, and still more faint;
Till on the verdant turf he sank,
Recumbent on the sloping bank,
And with one deep and fev’rish sigh,
Clos’d for awhile his languid eye;
But though insensible he lies,
His arms still grasp the rescu’d prize;
The mountain zephyr fann’d his cheek,–
Once more arising, sad and weak,
Upward he pac’d: upon the height
The fold now just appear’d in sight;
But, oh! his weary soul was low,
Many a step he’d yet to go!
Feeble and varying was his breath,
His spirit heavy e’en to death!
And will he still embrace the Sheep?
Still in his arms his treasure keep?
Still on his bleeding bosom take it!
Will nothing tempt him to forsake it?
No!–though his pulses all are fleeting,
That in his heart but faintly beating,
Though life itself began to languish,
Each sep’rate wound a source of anguish,
His grasping arms retain their hold.
Nor loosen till he gain’d the fold;
Then as to earth the Shepherd dropt,
For now the purple fount had stopt,
He threw that gate of refuge wide,
Smil’d on his blood-bought Lamb, and died.
(Charlotte Eliza Dixon)
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