Classic Poem

Making antiquarian search
In the grounds of Drawyer's church—
All deserted to the rain—
Sudden on a tomb I came
With a Senatorial name:
Arnold Naudain.

As I marked it, slowly creaked
The kirk shutter, and there peaked
A wild dog, and peaked again,
And a flock of blackbirds shouted
When I read again and doubted:
“Arnold Naudain.”

Some old scion fled from France
When they broke the truce of Nantes—
Calvinistic, face and grain;
Here he grew to good respect,
Presybterian and elect:
Arnold Naudain.

Scotch and Irish, Dutch and French,
To the Senate and the bench,
(Men for honor or for gain,)
Many of thy faith have risen:
Whom wert thou fast in his prison,
Arnold Naudain?

Then it seemed that in the stillness,
With a special sigh of shrillness,
Answered to me the refrain,
While my heart a space retreated,
And the old brick kirk repeated:
“Arnold Naudain.”

In the field the corn was naked,
And the great State road forsaked;
Bare of sails the river plain;
All too grave to be facetious,
Rose the echo superstitious:
“Arnold Naudain.”

Very ancient was the region;
Perished many a religion—
Quaker, Labadist, in vain
For the mastery contended;
“All but thine and mine are ended,
Arnold Naudain.

“Speak aloud! I do not fear thee,
What said'st thou, when pressed to hear thee,
Members, Senators in train,
And thy desk and form surrounded?”
Then again the grave resounded:
“Arnold Naudain!”

“Ha!” said I, “thou mad'st no speeches.
Like thy vote, thine echo teaches
Simple words and duty plain.
Others jabbered oft and clever:
But at roll-call thou wert ever
‘Arnold Naudain.’”

And the wind in solemn shiver,
And the marshes and the river
Seemed articulate again.
Name and station, State and nation,
Murmured with the dead creation:
“Arnold Naudain!”