The Gipsy's Prayer.
By Samuel Griswold Goodrich
Our altar is the dewy sod
Our temple yon blue throne of God:
No priestly rite our souls to bind
We bow before the Almighty Mind.
Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air
Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies' prayer:
Though banned and barred by all beside,
Be Thou the Outcast's guard and guide.
Poor fragments of a Nation wrecked
Its story whelmed in Time's neglect
We drift unheeded on the wave,
If God refuse the lost to save.
Yet though we name no Fatherland
And though we clasp no kindred hand
Though houseless, homeless wanderers we
Oh give us Hope, and Heaven with Thee!