Psalm Cxxvii. 1. Poem by Mary Anne Browne

Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.


THE glow of sunset lingers yet
Upon the city's distant walls;
On turret tall and parapet,
A crimson colouring falls;
And seem with flashing gems beset
Her many-windowed halls,
And to the weary traveller's eyes,
A blessed haven doth she rise.

Upon the stilly air hath died,
The multitude's continuous hum;
And now are rolling, far and wide,
Sounds of the evening drum,
As ebbs the glow of eventide,
Proclaiming night is come;
At intervals the watchman's cry,
Sweeps on the winds of twilight by.

The watch is set, the gates are barred,
And fearlessly the people sleep;
They know a faithful, wakeful ward
Their sentinels will keep;
They are 'gainst earthly foes prepared,
Their slumbers will be deep;
Yet, feel they not how vain their care,
Unless the Lord be watching there?

Alas! how often is the heart
In human wisdom fortified;
How oft is worldly, subtle art
Taken to be its guide!
How oft to life its passions start,
But to be deified;
While it depends on reason's power,
For watch and ward in danger's hour.

Should we not trust, and hope, and pray,
That God will be our sentinel?
That he will keep each secret way,
And guard the entrance well,
Lest, trusting in an earthly stay,
It proves a broken spell?
Keep thou our hearts in peace, oh Lord!
Be Thou our strength, our watch, and ward!