When from my desk in yonder crowded fane,
Thy vacant pew my wandering eyes survey,
Seeking unconsciously the far away,
My heart shrinks back upon itself with pain
And disappointment dull; and oft in vain
I wish and wish that thou wast here to pray
Beside me, and so speed upon their way
(As oft thou hast) my flagging prayers again:
But when, our solemn act of worship o'er,
In pastoral guise the pulpit I ascend,
No longer then thy absence I deplore:
Nay, can almost rejoice, beloved friend,
That I need play the mountebank no more,
Presuming my dim light to
thee
to lend.