 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
163
A ROADSIDE PREACHER.
Dead, is he,—in a pauper's bed,
The good old Larkin Moore?
Was there no place for that white head,
None but the workhouse floor?
Oh, bear him out with reverent tread,
Under blue heaven once more!
The good old Larkin Moore?
Was there no place for that white head,
None but the workhouse floor?
Oh, bear him out with reverent tread,
Under blue heaven once more!
He came and went across our youth
Like some arisen saint.
He flung his random dart of truth
In fashion wild and quaint:
His figure and his garb, in sooth,
Were something strange to paint.
Like some arisen saint.
He flung his random dart of truth
In fashion wild and quaint:
His figure and his garb, in sooth,
Were something strange to paint.
His tunic fluttered in the wind,
Each thin hand held a cane;
With silvery locks blown far behind,
He hurried through the lane,
Some straggling listener to find,
And seldom sought in vain.
Each thin hand held a cane;
With silvery locks blown far behind,
He hurried through the lane,
Some straggling listener to find,
And seldom sought in vain.
For often, in the dusty street,
Men paused from work to hear
The echoes of the hills repeat
The shrill voice of the seer;
And boys forgot each playful feat,
And idly clustered near.
Men paused from work to hear
The echoes of the hills repeat
The shrill voice of the seer;
And boys forgot each playful feat,
And idly clustered near.
The baby left its mother's arm
To hear the old man sing;
And cream-white fingers, plump and warm,
Around his lips would ring,
To pluck the song's mysterious charm;
The winsome, witless thing!
To hear the old man sing;
And cream-white fingers, plump and warm,
Around his lips would ring,
To pluck the song's mysterious charm;
The winsome, witless thing!
And little girls, upon a bank
Of blossoms red and white,
Pausing amid some pretty prank,
Their eyes with fun still bright,
Listened, while timidly they shrank;
It was a pleasant sight:
Of blossoms red and white,
Pausing amid some pretty prank,
Their eyes with fun still bright,
Listened, while timidly they shrank;
It was a pleasant sight:
For he was harmless in his mood,
And told, with cheerful tone,
True stories of the wise and good,
To Hebrew ages known:
In ways we little understood,
His seeds of truth were sown.
And told, with cheerful tone,
True stories of the wise and good,
To Hebrew ages known:
In ways we little understood,
His seeds of truth were sown.
164
And so he wandered east and west,
And up and down the land:
We wondered if, at night, his rest
Were on the hard, bare sand;
He surely had one sheltering nest,—
The hollow of God's hand.
And up and down the land:
We wondered if, at night, his rest
Were on the hard, bare sand;
He surely had one sheltering nest,—
The hollow of God's hand.
It seemed to us he could not die,
Nor yet with years grow old.
His home was somewhere in the sky,
For aught we could have told;
And had he, wingless, tried to fly,
Who would have thought him bold?
Nor yet with years grow old.
His home was somewhere in the sky,
For aught we could have told;
And had he, wingless, tried to fly,
Who would have thought him bold?
Thou weird apostle of the Past,
Among the shoots of May
Was thy unsifted seed-grain cast;
And with her blossoms gay
The wayside word has bloomed at last,
More beautiful than they.
Among the shoots of May
Was thy unsifted seed-grain cast;
And with her blossoms gay
The wayside word has bloomed at last,
More beautiful than they.
Dead? In thy right mind thou dost sit
Upon Life's farther shore,
Bathed in the Light that men of wit
With dazed eyes shrink before;
While on a pauper's grave is writ,
“Here slumbers Larkin Moore.”
Upon Life's farther shore,
Bathed in the Light that men of wit
With dazed eyes shrink before;
While on a pauper's grave is writ,
“Here slumbers Larkin Moore.”
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |