. At early candle light and other poems. which spills through smiling lips What thy large eyes see in Apocalypse. O your quenchless hope, your manly grain Maketh Paul of Tarsus to live again! In shallow forms our souls are fast; As a canon rings to a bugle blast, Blow your trumpet our slumbers through, Taylor of Africa, tried and true. Taylor of Africa, heart of oak,Hew Christ a path with sturdy owls may hoot, the weaklings pule,The gilded gewgaws call thee fool;God speed thee in that far-off climeAnd give thy spirit strength to rhyme,? With the gospel message as it rollsThe shout o
. At early candle light and other poems. which spills through smiling lips What thy large eyes see in Apocalypse. O your quenchless hope, your manly grain Maketh Paul of Tarsus to live again! In shallow forms our souls are fast; As a canon rings to a bugle blast, Blow your trumpet our slumbers through, Taylor of Africa, tried and true. Taylor of Africa, heart of oak,Hew Christ a path with sturdy owls may hoot, the weaklings pule,The gilded gewgaws call thee fool;God speed thee in that far-off climeAnd give thy spirit strength to rhyme,? With the gospel message as it rollsThe shout of a million ransomed souls!Thou wilt come some day unto the throneWith troops of her children as thine , Lord, hast thou more work to do rTaylor of Africa, tried and true. THE BOY WC NEVER SW B potters work in common clay, are common clay ourselves,Just as humble and as homely as the jugs upon our shelves;But this child was alabaster fair, without a fleck or flaw,Sit down here, until I tell you, sir, of the boy we never One day last fall a likel}^ ball lay on the molding rim,And in the shed, at his wheel head, stood this stranger tied his apron on and tossed a nod across to me,Then struck his treadle softly as a master strikes a key. He held the mass a moment, then so coaxingly and slow,With every turn the shapely urn in beauty seemed to when the wire cut the work from off his heavy wheel,We knew he was a craftsman true, from head to flying heel. 112 THE BOY WE NEVER SAW Jim had a younkit, four years old, just coming down to die,A sickly lad who suffered so that the women had to how the little tyke, soon as the pain would stop,Called for the little kickshaws we sent him from the shop. We made the queerest cups, and then we made the oddest many a dip of smoothest slip, and many curious chinked them in the hottest kiln, farthest from the blaze,Then took our turns to fire them, and took our turns to glaze. The foreman,
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