POOR wand'rers, ye are sore distress'd
To find that path which Christ has bless'd,
Track'd by His saintly throng;
Each claims to trust his own weak will,
Blind idol!—so ye languish still,
All wranglers and all wrong.
He saw of old, and met your need,
Granting you prophets of His creed,
The throes of fear to swage;
They fenced the rich bequest He made,
And sacred hands have safe convey'd
Their charge from age to age.
Wand'rers! come home! obey the call!
A Mother pleads, who ne'er let fall
One grain of Holy Truth;
Warn you and win she shall and must,
For now she lifts her from the dust,
To reign as in her youth.
Off Cape Ortegal.
December 11, 1832.