Classic Poem

I
A hundred years ago this morn,
He came to walk our human way;
And we would change the Crown of Thorn
For healing leaves To-day.

But we can only hang our wreath
Upon the cold white marble's brow;
Tho' loud we speak, or low we breathe,
We cannot reach him now.

He loved us all! he loved so much!
His heart of love the world could hold;
And now the whole wide world, with such
A love, would round him fold.

'Tis long and late before it wakes
So kindly,--yet a true world still;
It hath a heart so large, it takes
A Century to fill.
II

Aye, tell the wondrous tale to-day,
When songs are sung, and warm words said;
Tell how he wore the hodden gray,
And won the oaten bread.

With wintry welcome at the door,
Did Nature greet him to his lot;
Our royal Minstrel of the Poor
Hid in an old clay Cot.

There in the bonny Bairn-time dawn,
He nestled at his Mother's knee,
With such a face as might have drawn
The Angels down to see

A rosy Innocent at prayer,--
So pure and ready for the hand
Of Her who is Guardian Spirit where
Babes sleep in Silent Land.

There young love slily came to bring
Rare balms that will bewitch the blood
To dance, while happy spirits sing,
With life in hey-day flood:

And there she found her darling Child,
The robust Muse of sun-browned health,
Who nurst him up into the wild
Young heir of all her wealth.

And there she rockt his infant thought
Asleep with visions glorious,
That hallow now the Poor Man's Cot.
For evermore to us.

Disguised Angelic playmates are
Those still ideal dreams of Youth,
That draw it on to Greatness; there
We find them shaped in truth.

Yes, there he learned the touch that thrills
Right to the natural heart of things;
Struck rootage down to where Life heals
At the eternal springs.

Before the lords of earth there stood
A Man by Nature born and bred,
To show us on what simple food
A hero may be fed.

No gifts of gold for him; no crown
Of Fortune waiting for his brow!
But wrestling strength to earn his own:
It shines in glory now!

Wild music on lone shingly shores,--
Wild winds that break in seas of sound;
Sad gloamings eerie on the moors;
The murdered Martyr's mound;

Wan awful Shadows, trailing like
The great skirts of the hurrying Storm;
Bronzed purple thunder-lights that strike'
The woodlands wet and warm;

Meek glimpses of peculiar grace,
Where Beauty lyeth, in undress,
Asleep in secret hiding place,
Out in the wilderness:

Those glorious Sunsets, God's good-night,
Is smiled thro' to our world, and felt;
All, all enrich his ear and sight,--
Thro' all his being melt.

He rose up in a dawn of light
That burst upon the olden day;
Many weird voices of the night
In his music passed away!

He caught them, Witch and Warlock, ere
They vanisht; all the revelry
Of wizard wonder, we must wear
The mask of Sleep to see!

Droll Humours came for him to paint
Their pictures; straight his merry eye
Had taken them, so queer and quaint,
We laugh until we cry.