University of Virginia Library

An English matron sat at eve
Beneath the stately tree
That grew before her husband's hall,
With her young son at her knee:
All green and ancient were the woods
That grew around their home,
And old and quaint armorial stones
Adorned their stately dome:
And 'mid dark trees a little church
Its holy form displayed,
Within whose deep and quiet vaults
Their noble dead were laid.
The boy turned up his eager eyes
To his mother, as she told
Of the proud race from whom he sprung,
And their achievements old.
“My son, the legend of our house
Is simply ‘Trust in God,’
And none unworthy of such trust
Within its halls have trod.
The blood of thy heroic line
Has reddened many a field,
And trophies of the fights they won
Are blazoned on thy shield;
The banners which they bore away,
All soiled, and torn, and red,
Are mouldering in yon holy pile,
Above the warrior dead;
And many an ancient coat-of-mail,
And plumed helm and sword,
All proved in some heroic cause,
Within thy home are stored.
Thou bear'st the noble name they bore,
Their blood is in thy veins,
And much thy worthy sires have done,
But more for thee remains.
They shrunk not in the dreadful hour
Of Persecution's scathe,
And some 'mid bonds and some 'mid fire
Maintained their righteous faith.
Thou must not shrink, thou must not fear,
Nor e'er belie their trust,
For God, who brought the mighty low,
He raised them from the dust.
And in our dangerous hour of pride,
When honours gird us round,
Alas! the boasted strength of man
Is often weakest found;
And they who put their trust in heaven,
'Mid darkness and dismay,
Too soon forget the God they sought,
When fear has passed away.
The hour of chiefest danger now
Is nigh—so heaven thee guide!—
Prosperity will try thee, boy,
As ne'er thy sires were tried!—
And oh, unworthy of thy sires,
Not here couldst thou find rest;
Thou might'st not stand beneath these trees
Were thine a guilty breast;
These ancient walls, yon holy fane,
This green and stately tree,
Couldst thou disgrace thy noble name,
Would speak reproach to thee!”

Again the boy looked in her face,
His bright eyes dimmed with tears,
And “Not unworthy of my sires
Shall be my manhood years!”
Said he, in a proud, but artless tone,
And his mother kissed his brow,
And said, “I trust in God that none
Of thy noble sires in the ages gone
Had a nobler son than thou!”