Classic Poem

Come and look upon this picture,
Thoughtfully those features scan:
There he sits, the bard of Scripture,
Not an angel, but a man.

In his hand the harp that often
Thrill'd the shepherd in the glen,
And has now supreme dominion
O'er the hearts and souls of men —

That same harp which charm'd the demon
In the darken'd soul of Saul;
And has sooth'd the troubled spirit
In the bosoms of us all.

Human nature's strength and weakness,
Hope and heart-break, smiles and sighs,
With a world of joy and sorrows,
Mirror'd in those deep-blue eyes,

'Tis a face that, somehow, tells us
God hath made us all the same —
Of one blood and heart and nature,
Diff'ring but in creed and name;

All that has been done or suffer'd,
All that has been thought or said,
Israel's strength, and Israel's weakness,
Summ'd up in that lordly head.

Yet, curtail'd, hemm'd in, and hamper'd,
He could only utter part
Of the great infinite message
That was lying on his heart.

'Tis a face supremely human,
Brother to us, ev'ry one,
For he oft had sinn'd and sorrow'd,
Just as you and I have done.

Yet it tells a tale of struggle,
Of a life-long, weary fight,
Wrestling foemen all the day long,
Wrestling phantoms all the night.

Fighting with infatuation,
Scorning the degrading chain;
Hating sin, yet rushing to it,
Rising, but to fall again;

Always sinning and repenting,
Promising to sin no more;
Now resisting, now consenting,
Human to the very core.

Now he deems himself forsaken,
Feels that he's a poor outcast;
But tho' he should die despairing,
He will struggle to the last.

He has felt the soul's upbraiding:
Conscience oft has made him smart
Until pain, and shame, and sorrow,
Leapt in lyrics from his heart.

From the depth of his affliction
To Jehovah he would cry,
Who, in love and pity, rais'd him,
Set him on a rock on high;

Gave him gleams of worlds transcendent,
Brighter than the rainbow's rim;
Touch'd his harpstrings with the raptures
Of the soaring seraphim.

Like the mighty waters gushing
Is the torrent of his song,
Sweeping onward, roaring, rushing,
Bearing human hearts along.

Then, anon, like gentle dew-drops,
Falls that spirit, sweet, serene,
Peaceful as the quiet waters,
Fragrant as the glades of green.

Then what living gusts of gladness
Startle the enraptured ear,
While a tone of human sadness
Makes the sweetest strain more dear.

Not the rapt and holy prophet,
Not the pure in ev'ry part,
But the sinning, sorrowing creature,
Was the " man of God's own heart. "

His was love surpassing tender,
And God gave it as a sign,
That the heart that is most human
Is the heart that's most divine.