Hymn For The Sons Of The Clergy Poem by Anne MacVicar Grant

HOW bless'd those olive plants that grow
Beneath the altar's sacred shade,
Where streams of fresh instruction flow,
And Comfort's humble board is spread.
'Twas thus the swallow rear'd her young,
Secure within the house of GOD ,
Of whom the Royal Prophet sung,
When banish'd from that bless'd abode.
When, like the swallow's tender brood,
They leave the kind paternal dome,
On weary wing to seek their food,
Or find in other climes a home;
Where'er they roam, where'er they rest,
Through all the varied scenes of life,
Whether with tranquil plenty bless'd,
Or doom'd to share the deadly strife;
Still may the streams of grace divine
Glide softly near their devious way;
And faith's fair light serenely shine,
To change their darkness into day.
Still may they with fraternal love
Each other's shield and aid become;
And while through distant realms they rove,
Remember still their childhood's home;
The simple life, the frugal fare,
The kind parental counsels given,
The tender love, the pious care,
That early winged their hopes to heav'n:
And when the evening shades decline,
And when life's toilsome task is o'er,
May they each earthly wish resign,
And holier, happier climes explore.
And when the faithful shepherds view
Each ransom'd flock around them spread,
How will they bless the plants that grew
Beneath the altar's sacred shade!