Classic Poem

The old bell calls to morning prayers
From his bower of ivy-vine:
The old bell-ringer kneels on the stairs
To mumble o'er his line:
The little birds have all sung theirs:
Lo! I will sing me mine.

Pater Noster — Lord of Heaven,
Holy, Holy is Thy name!
Strike the chords of Lyra, seven,
Till each string sounds forth Thy fame.
Let the sun fulfil his motion
Day by day at Thy sure word,
Let the wind o'er land and ocean
Sing the greatness of the Lord,
Let the rain in gentle showers
Patter patter praise to Thee,
Let the thunder's mighty powers
Rend the sky and shake the sea,
Till all nations shall enthrone Thee
King of Kings eternally.

Pater Noster — The Creator
Of the earth and all therein,
From the poles to the equator
Cleanse it, cleanse it, Lord, from sin!
Thou, who mak'st the flowers fragrant,
Send'st the seasons ever sure,
Take Thy children, erring, vagrant,
Make their lives so true, so pure.
Grant them harvests free, abundant;
After labor give them rest;
Let not sorrow be redundant —
Lord, Thou knowest what is best.
Those who fall beneath life's burden,
Take, O take them to Thy breast.

Pater Meus — O my Father,
Hear the cry of this poor soul!
Punish not my sins, but rather
In Thy mercy make me whole.
Doubt and Fear pursue, o'ertake me;
Faith and I — oh! weak are we.
I am lost if Thou forsake me:
Pity my humility!
Give me strength to fight and vanquish
The grim foes who bar my way,
Heal my wounds, and calm my anguish —
Hear, O hear these prayers I say!
Lead me through the world's long night-time
To the pure and perfect day.

Pater Omnis — Shall I ask it? —
Yea: for Thou hast loved me.
Let me bear one fragment-basket,
Filled with love by Galilee:
Let me, for my soul's salvation,
Love on all men here bestow,
Not for mine own exaltation,
But for His, whose love I show.
Save me from the name of scorner,
Teach me how to help the weak,
Lift the fallen, soothe the mourner,
Comfort those who comfort seek —
Make me like, and ever liker,
Holy Jesus kind and meek.

The prayer is sung, the bell is still,
The ivy flashes in the sun.
The old bell-ringer hath a chill:
His course is nearly run.
I'll forth and aid him up the hill:
The new day is begun.