Caught in a pelting shower of rain
When in the City Road,
Lest it should wet me to the skin,
I to a cobbler's stall stepped in
The door stood wide abroad.
I begged to stay a moment there,
Until it should subside;
And, while he did the lamstone pat,
We entered on a friendly chat;
I spoke and he replied,
"Old soles," said I, "That still decay
Thou dost to mend device,
But canst thou not thy powers extend,
An unbeliever's soul to mend
Wherein all mischief lies?”
He paused a moment, dropped his awl,
Looked up and thus he said:
"I might as well attempt to bind
The surging ocean, or the wind,
With this my waxen thread.
"No, sir, a heart as bad as mine
So bad in all its bearing,
Is like a leprous house, that must
At once be leveled to the dust;
'Tis far beyond repairing.
"Go now and search the sacred page;
That holy Book is true, sir;
Nor does it e'er a thought admit
Of God's intent in mending it.
He'd rather form anew, sir.”
Thus spake the man, a saint indeed,
And that by calling, too;
He still contrives old shoes to mend,
But says he never shall pretend
To make an old soul new.
Then hand in hand, we bade adieu!
I left his humble shed,
And from that period to this hour
I bless God for the pelting shower
And what the cobbler said.