At the fair (The Disciple)

(The Saviour of the World, Vol VI Book II Poem XIX)

Eager we take our way through noisy mart,
Agog for bargains that shall souls appease,
Shall minister to happiness or ease,
Shall give us courage for our per’lous part,

Or soothe the soreness of our wounded heart!
They cry their tinsel wares nor ever cease;
We buy in hope of joy and wealth’s increase;
Brought home, our sorry bargain, stript of art,

Mocks our desire. But in the fair was One
We would not hear, whose cry was only, “Rest”;
“Why hither, thither, will ye frenzied run?

“Come, buy, but bring no money; cease your quest
For unguent never made beneath the sun;
Come unto Me, and I will give you rest!”

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