Classic Poem

This sketch I dedicate to you,
For in your early youth
Such characters full well you knew,
Great souls that stood for truth.
The Scotland o' our younger days
It will reca' to min',
And guid auld worthies and their ways —
The heroes o' lang syne.

Yes, this is the volume! I knew it of old.
Such a vision of long-vanish'd years
The ancient Haw' Bible again has unroll'd,
That I scarce can behold it for tears.
Creation lay then in life's glorious dawn,
And love, hope and wonder were new,
And my young spirit bounded as free as the fawn,
And bathed in the beautiful dew.

Again my rapt spirit is thrill'd as of yore
With a gleam from the Fountain of Light;
Across the wide gulf — yea, the gulf of three score! —
What scenes flash again on my sight!
Ah, there in his bonnet and old coat of blue
The hoary old patriarch stands;
His face, tho' careworn, has the stamp of the true,
And horny and hard are his hands.

The hair on his high, ample forehead is thin;
Compassion looks out from his eyes,
As if they had long look'd on sorrow and sin
With a sad and a solemn surprise.
There is force in the face, and decision and power,
There is weight in the air and the tread;
He looks not like one who would tremble and cower,
Or like one to be easily led.

As I look at that old man, in righteousness bold,
Who fearless his faith did maintain,
The saints and the sages, the heroes of old,
Assemble around me again.
With old Covenanters who bled for the truth
His spirit communion did hold;
They were his familiars, e'en up from his youth,
And the saints and the martyrs of old.

This book was the deep mine of treasures untold
To sojourners under the sky,
The well in the desert more precious than gold.
The fountain that never ran dry.
It taught him the mere fleeting nature of time,
And to strive for the spirit's high goal;
And it gave him the wisdom, the knowledge sublime,
Of the grandeur and worth of the soul;

And what is the knowledge men prize so much here
To the knowledge that comes from on high,
Which keeps the heart humble, the spirit sincere,
And fits us to live and to die.
And, morning and evening, in boyhood I saw
This volume before him outspread,
And my young bosom thrill'd with a joy and an awe
At the wonderful things that he read.

And, then as he pour'd ouThis spirit in prayer,
All earthly thoughts fled the abode —
Creation had vanish'd, and nothing was there
Save the deep voice ascending to God.
And when by some grand or some terrible thought
This poor peasant's spirit was fired,
To a loftier region his spirit seem'd caught,
And he spake like a prophet inspired.

What to him were the crowns and the kingdoms of time,
But mere passing things of a day?
Was he not the heir of a kingdom sublime,
That knows not of death and decay?
Was he not appointed a great work to do —
Appointed e'en by the Most High —
The dark pow'rs of evil to stem and subdue,
The greatest work under the sky?

Then Potentates, Princes, and Pow'rs of the earth,
Your gems and your jewels grew dim;
In presence of goodness and meek, humble worth
Your sceptres were baubles to him.
And were not the gauds which the vain mass adore
But trifles the faithful despise;
And the idols the multitudes bow down before
But a refuge of folly and lies?

This old man was dow'r'd with invincible will —
E'en tho' misdirected, 'twas grand;
In his presence rude natures grew silent and still,
Or shrank like bond-slaves at command.
I've seen the bold braggart, the boaster and rake,
In dudgeon away from him fly;
Beheld, too, the titled fool tremble and quake
'Neath the scorn of that poor peasant's eye.

But virtue will grow into vices, I ween,
And even the righteous will fall.
How few of us keep the straight balance and mean;
But God is the judge of us all.
A deep sense of duty — however deceiv'd —
Like an atmosphere over him hung,
And all that he either thought, did, or believ'd,
From duty — stern duty — it sprung.

E'en human affections had all to give way —
Was he there to think or to feel?
His orders were there , he had but to obey,
And his bosom 'gainst nature to steel.

He sleeps with his fathers; his battles are o'er,
The toil and the trouble are done;
Disappointment and heart-break — ah! no — nevermore
Shall vex him here under the sun.

He was one of the last of a loyal old race,
Who were simply yet grandly sincere,
Who look'd all temptation to sin in the face,
And trampled on doubt and on fear.
But still in the heart of the sternly severe
There were gleams of the spirit divine,
And, with all of our knowledge, we're forced to revere
Those sternly great souls o' lang syne.