The Shepherd of the Range

The Shepherd of the Range

I.

From Pyrenees to Utah's hills I came. In summer suns, I herd complaining flocks Far up her steep and brushy mountain slopes, Or drive them through the pointed canyon rocks To lofty summit pastures, fresh and sweet And gay with snowy, fragile Columbine And proud pentstemons' gaudy azure bells, To air as pure and strong as Provence wine, And watch them spread about like driven snow In moving, bleating masses rude and strange ;

I, with my book before me on a rock,

I, a poor lonely shepherd of the Range.

II.

When winter's silvery mantle settles down, Covering the naked peaks against his cold, And firs stand black in dazzling wastes of white, And sinking suns transmute the hills to gold, I, with my bleating charges, following down, Seek deserts dry where sage and shadscale grow, And sage cocks strut, and the sad coyotes call, And never hear the pleasant waters flow; Here browses wide on meager winter feed The fretting flock, and I, in quarters strange, Open my book again and read and read, I, a poor lonely shepherd of the Range.

THE SHEPHERD OF THE RANGE 1039

III.

I read the story of the Son of Man From Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and holy John; All that He ever did, or said, or thought, Closing my book, I like to think upon; On Christinas eve I hear the angels sing, As other shepherds heard; I, too, rejoice, And hold the peace they promise in my heart, Of all His gifts the holiest and most choice: These are the pastures of my hungry soul; That other men should pass them by, how strange It seems, but I am ignorant, I know, Only a lonely shepherd of the Range.

IV.

I hear men say, who seem to me quite sane, That holy Jesus never walked the earth; Others, that never either God or man Entered life's portals through a virgin birth. Some say a man named Jesus lived and died, But that his life was never rightly told; But many things were added or left out By them that wrote these gospel books of old. It may be so. I have so little lore; The miracles, I know, are passing strange; I often skip them when I read the book Here in the bleating silence of the Range.

V.

I think at times on this that men have said, With troubled mind, and to myself I say, We often speak thus to our other selves, You know it is the lonely shepherd's way: What matters it what men say of the Christ, Or even doubt he ever walked the earth? Since from the first I read these gospel books The Jesus of my soul has had his birth: His power as great as if in flesh and blood; The truths He told of goodness do not change; I worship though men say he never was, I, a poor lonely shepherd of the Range.

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VI.

Icare not how these gospel books were writ, By man or God, it matters not to me, My Christ, by these four books, has lived and died, And now lives on to all eternity. I seeno need for weary argument; I lovemy holy Christ and tend my sheep His gentle words are written in my heart. O, Holy One, thy faithful shepherd keep. But when I tell this to the men I see, They say my words are something more than strange, And shake their heads, and with a patient smile Leave me, the lonely shepherd of the Range.

VII.

The evening sun has tinged to rose the snow, The dogs with eager eyes wait my command, The tinted hills through wintry hazes seen Seem like the shores of some far distant land; Soon will my fire blaze up with cheerful glow And spicy sage like incense bite the air, And gathering night awake the wistful owl And draw the coyote from his chilly lair: And I shall lie beneath the cold, bright stars Unlet by priests or doubts or creeds that change, And worship God, the Christ I know so well, I, a poor lonely shepherd of the Range.

T. McClure Peters.