Classic Poem

Welcome to the weary worn,
Welcome to the heart forlorn,
Welcome, sacred Sabbath morn!

Peace from yonder cloud's descending,
Heav'n and earth again are blending,
And the woods in worship bending.

Yonder distant hill-pines lie
On the bosom of the sky,
Musing on things deep and high.

Yea, the very swamp has caught
Something like a holy thought,
And its face with love is fraught;

While yon ancient elms extend
Their great arms, and arch and blend
Into cloisters without end,

Forming many a still retreat
Where the noon-tide shadows meet,
Ever on their noiseless feet.

Blessèd morn! thou'rt welcome here
To the backwoods pioneer,
Far from all his heart holds dear.

He has wander'd far away
From the land of mountains grey
Where his children are at play.

Urged by independence on,
Far into these wilds unknown
He has ventured all alone.

Freedom whisper'd in his breast
He would find a home of rest
In the forests of the West;

But he found it hard to part
From the partner of his heart,
In that cottage by the Cart,

And his little children three,
Crowding all around his knee,
Whom he never more might see.

In his log-built cabin rude,
In the forest solitude,
There he sits in thoughtful mood.

“Who,” he asks, “at God's behest,
Will lead forth His poor opprest
To this refuge in the West?

“While these wilds cry out for toil
To produce their corn and oil,
Men starve on their native soil.

“Willing hearts are left to wither;
Bring, oh, bring the workers hither!
Bring the lands and hands together.”

From such thoughts he turns away,
For on this, God's holy day,
He would hear what prophets say.

Even Burns he puts aside—
Burns, his week-day joy and pride!
Burns, so human, wild, and wide!

And he brings from out its nook
That great Book of books—the Book!
On its sacred page to look.

Now some song of Israel's King
Comes, as on an angel's wing,
Through his very soul to sing

Songs that bring a joy untold,
Songs more precious far than gold,
Songs that never can grow old;

Sung by martyrs in the glen,
That in sorrow's darkest den
Cheered the souls of weary men.

Now he reads the tragic story
How the world, in sin grown hoary,
Crucified the Son of Glory:

He—the Hope of every clime,
He—the sole bright Star in time,
Solitary soul sublime!

Then his knee to heav'n he bends;
For his children and his friends
All his soul in prayer ascends.

May God guide them o'er the deep,
As a shepherd guides his sheep,
Watching kindly o'er their sleep.

Now he prays for all in pain,
For the wretched and insane,
While the teardrops fall like rain;

Pleading for the sons of crime,
The despised, the dross, the slime—
Wretched, Lord, in ev'ry clime—

For the outcast in his lair,
All that need a brother's care,
Houseless vagrants ev'rywhere;

Prays that mists may cease to blind
Fellow-workmen left behind,—
“May they, Lord, have strength of mind

“To resist the drunken feast,
Scorning all that has increas'd
Their relation to the beast.

“Let their worth appear in deeds,
Not in whining of their needs,
Or in mouthing of the creeds.

“Let them try to fill the ditch
That divides the poor and rich
Like a seething lake of pitch;

“Ever doing what they can,
Working out each noble plan,
Calling forth the God in man!

“Break, O Lord! the spell of birth;
Haste the time when moral worth
Shall take highest rank on earth.

“Break the chains of creed and caste,
Heal the wounds of all the past,
Bring the reign of Love at last.”

'Til the evening shadows grey
Clothe the woods in dark array,
Thus he keeps the Sabbath day.