John the Priest

John the Priest of Corna daleLate crowned with scholar's bays;Now sent to teach a rustic flock,Had cursed his dreary days.

Far on the slopes of North BarruleThe Corna valley lies;And far remote the lonely keeilThat seems so near the skies.

So few and simple were the folkAnd scattered through the vale—What honour should a scholar findIn savage Corna dale?

Now John the Priest he laid him downUpon his pallet bare;And John he heard or dreamed he heardSoft voices in the air.

"Glory to God" they sang once moreAs heralds from on high;And John he rose or dreamed he rose,But nought could he espy.

Gray sheets of mist were rolling up,And pouring through the vale;When through a rift shone steps of gold—From Heaven to Corna dale.

And John he saw, or thought he saw,Or dreamed he thought he saw,His Master on those shining steps,And bowed himself in awe.

"My Corna sheep are dear to meAs any in the fold,My Corna dale is near to meAs Lebanon of old."

"Thine is the work to save these sheep,Thy glory let it be,For every soul in Corna daleThou, John, wilt answer me!"

The cloud uplift: the sun sprang upAnd sparkled through the vale;A score of pearly smoke-wreaths roseTo Heaven from Corna dale.

Then John the Priest stretched forth his handsAnd blessed the rising sun,And blessed the simple folk around,And taught them one by one.

No book nor scrip could there be found;But on rough slabs of rockHe cut and graved as best he mightThe lessons for his flock.

And that himself should ne'er forgetHis vision in the vale,He carved—"Of all the sheep is JohnThe Priest in Corna dale."

Far on the slopes of old BarruleLone lies the ruined Keeil,And there the words of John the PriestIn Runes are living still.