Classic Poem

They say Saint John's was in Maryland
Before they ran the line
And found itself on the Delaware strand
Bemoaned by a single pine,—
The pine that the Rector's ashes grew
And making the self-same tone
Of the parish prayers that he only knew,
And that is the Rector's moan.

When came the Scots out of Somerset
To fight the Penns away,
The old pine tree had a mighty fret
And waved its arms to the fray:
The kirk folk paused as to hear low mass;
Like a seashell every cone
Old service breathed in the ears that pass,
And that is the Rector's moan.

He stood his ground when all had fled,
Like Thomas A'Becket slain,
And chanted the Litany when dead,
Like the seed of the pine in pain.
High in the heaven his finger grew
And murmured his dying tone:
Anathema to the spoilers blew,
And this is the Rector's moan.