 | The emigrant's story, and other poems |  |
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THE OLD PARSON.
In antique-fashioned coat and wig,
Along the road the aged preacher
Goes slowly jogging in his gig,
A homespun saint in garb and feature.
He has a smile or kindly speech
Alike for rich and poor and each
Wild youth no sermon yet could reach:
“For all are better than their deeds,
And Heaven is kinder than our creeds,”
Thinks the old Parson.
Along the road the aged preacher
Goes slowly jogging in his gig,
A homespun saint in garb and feature.
He has a smile or kindly speech
Alike for rich and poor and each
Wild youth no sermon yet could reach:
“For all are better than their deeds,
And Heaven is kinder than our creeds,”
Thinks the old Parson.
Not now the school-boys, hat in hand,
Or pinafored and pretty lassies,
In rows upon the roadside stand,
And make their manners when he passes.
As the good custom used to be
In days when he was young; but he
Likes better, simple soul, to see
The smile that lights each roguish eye—
And rosy face as he rides by,
The dear old Parson.
Or pinafored and pretty lassies,
In rows upon the roadside stand,
And make their manners when he passes.
As the good custom used to be
In days when he was young; but he
Likes better, simple soul, to see
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And rosy face as he rides by,
The dear old Parson.
Though many a stop he makes, you'll find
His welcome presence longest lingers
In yonder cottage-room behind
The honeysuckles and syringas,
Where all the lovely summer lies
The crippled girl, with yearning eyes
Turned outward to the flowers and skies.
Few come to soothe her loneliness,
And so good cause has she to bless
The kind old Parson.
His welcome presence longest lingers
In yonder cottage-room behind
The honeysuckles and syringas,
Where all the lovely summer lies
The crippled girl, with yearning eyes
Turned outward to the flowers and skies.
Few come to soothe her loneliness,
And so good cause has she to bless
The kind old Parson.
When friends fall out, before the gate
The gig turns up, he hitches sorrel,—
Love enters in the house of Hate,
He takes the hands of them that quarrel,
And says: “Forgive! forgive! and then,
If need there be, forgive again,
And still forgive and love! For men
Are always better than their deeds.”
Such seeds he sows. Heaven bless the seeds
Sown by the Parson!
The gig turns up, he hitches sorrel,—
Love enters in the house of Hate,
He takes the hands of them that quarrel,
And says: “Forgive! forgive! and then,
If need there be, forgive again,
And still forgive and love! For men
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Such seeds he sows. Heaven bless the seeds
Sown by the Parson!
His mission is to help and bless;
And the hard doctrines that he preaches
In words of joy and gentleness
Are hidden, like the stones in peaches.
His hearers' hearts are warmed and stirred;
“And yet, he does not preach the Word!
His works are vain!” as late I heard,
With finger-shake and sapient air,
Two pert young ministers declare,
And blame the Parson.
And the hard doctrines that he preaches
In words of joy and gentleness
Are hidden, like the stones in peaches.
His hearers' hearts are warmed and stirred;
“And yet, he does not preach the Word!
His works are vain!” as late I heard,
With finger-shake and sapient air,
Two pert young ministers declare,
And blame the Parson.
One said, “He likes a hand at whist”;
And one, “He takes a glass at dinner,
And loves to counsel and assist
Better than to convert the sinner.”
“Grave faults!” said both. But this I know:
The Parson's life, as parsons go,
Is such that those who judge him so
Are hardly worthy to unloose
The buckles of his dusty shoes,—
A rare old Parson!
And one, “He takes a glass at dinner,
And loves to counsel and assist
Better than to convert the sinner.”
“Grave faults!” said both. But this I know:
The Parson's life, as parsons go,
Is such that those who judge him so
77
The buckles of his dusty shoes,—
A rare old Parson!
“He likes a joke too well by half”;
And so he sets some hearts a-quaking,
As if, because his deacons laugh
The pillars of the church were shaking!
“I never yet could learn,” he says,
“Why rooted faith should flourish less
In broad, sunshiny cheerfulness
Than in the shadow of the tomb:
'T is fear, not faith, that hugs the gloom,”
Argues the Parson.
And so he sets some hearts a-quaking,
As if, because his deacons laugh
The pillars of the church were shaking!
“I never yet could learn,” he says,
“Why rooted faith should flourish less
In broad, sunshiny cheerfulness
Than in the shadow of the tomb:
'T is fear, not faith, that hugs the gloom,”
Argues the Parson.
He squares his thought by right good sense,
And does not dread the light of science.
His finest flowers of eloquence
Are just the common dandelions
And buttercups of daily speech;
And yet they say, who hear him preach,
That none so well as he can teach
The hope that lives, the love that burns,
Till even the careless sceptic turns
To heed the Parson.
And does not dread the light of science.
His finest flowers of eloquence
Are just the common dandelions
And buttercups of daily speech;
And yet they say, who hear him preach,
That none so well as he can teach
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Till even the careless sceptic turns
To heed the Parson.
But, though he be not deeply versed
In modern oratoric graces,
The studied pause, the fervent burst,
The flower-embroidered commonplaces,
He treads no changeless, narrow rounds
Of old belief, but far from bounds
His New Jerusalem he founds;
“For newer life brings larger needs,
And truth outgrows our threadbare creeds,”
Says the wise Parson.
In modern oratoric graces,
The studied pause, the fervent burst,
The flower-embroidered commonplaces,
He treads no changeless, narrow rounds
Of old belief, but far from bounds
His New Jerusalem he founds;
“For newer life brings larger needs,
And truth outgrows our threadbare creeds,”
Says the wise Parson.
Love's labors are his rest, and still
His friends will look, in pleasant weather,
To see him jogging by, until
His gig and he break down together.
Our friend is growing very old,
And rich in all the hoarded gold
Which hearts alone can have and hold:
“The riches that men leave behind
Are not the riches to my mind,”
Quoth the old Parson.
His friends will look, in pleasant weather,
To see him jogging by, until
His gig and he break down together.
Our friend is growing very old,
And rich in all the hoarded gold
Which hearts alone can have and hold:
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Are not the riches to my mind,”
Quoth the old Parson.
He still will have the good he gave
When, all his earthly errands ended,
He who has stood by many a grave
Shall be by us in turn attended
To the last resting-place of clay;
Then, as we lay his form away,
We'll strew the sod with flowers, and say:
“The man was better than his deeds,
His heart was larger than our creeds,
Peace to the Parson!”
When, all his earthly errands ended,
He who has stood by many a grave
Shall be by us in turn attended
To the last resting-place of clay;
Then, as we lay his form away,
We'll strew the sod with flowers, and say:
“The man was better than his deeds,
His heart was larger than our creeds,
Peace to the Parson!”
| The emigrant's story, and other poems | |