Classic Poem

Where yonder ancient willow weeps,
The father of the village sleeps;
And, tho' of humble birth,
As rare a specimen was he
Of Nature's true nobility
As ever trod the earth.
The busy head and hands are still;
Quench'd the unconquerable will,
Which fought and triumph'd here;
And tho' he's all unknown to fame,
Yet grateful hearts still bless his name,
And hold his me'mry dear.

He hither came in days when this
Was all a howling wilderness,
With little save his ax;
And cut and slash'd and hew'd his way,
And scarce a moment, night or day,
His efforts did relax.
For at it with a will he went,
And all his energies he bent,
Determin'd to get through;
To him all labor seem'd but sport,
The summer day was far too short
For all he had to do.

He chopp'd, he logg'd, he clear'd his lot,
And into many a darken'd spot
He let the light of day;
And through the long and dismal swamp,
So dark, so dreary and so damp,
He made a turnpike way.
The church, the school-house, and the mill,
The store, the forge, the vat, the kiln,
Were triumphs of his hand;
And many a lovely spot of green
Which peeps out there, the woods between,
Came forth at his command.

What was it that he would not face?
He bridged the stream, he cut the race,
Led water to the mill;
And plann'd and plodded, night and day,
Till ev'ry obstacle gave way
To his unconquer'd will.
And he was always at our call,
Was doctor, lawyer, judge and all;
And this throughout the section.
Oh! there was nothing could be done,
No field from out the forest won,
Save under his direction.

He drew up deeds, he measured land,
For all the people thought and plann'd,
Did aught to help a neighbor;
He always had so much to do,
I wonder'd how he e'er got through
With such a load of labor.
But something in his face said “Work”—
The very dullest could not shirk,
The deafest had to mind him;
And if he only look'd, or spoke,
Or only said a word in joke,
He left his mark behind him.

All prosper'd where he had a hand—
The houses that he built would stand,
The seed he sow'd would grow;
And for his bait the fishes fought,
The deer seem'd willing to be caught—
'Twas strange, but it was so.
His plan of things was aye the best,
Success from failure he would wrest,
He had such art about him,
And truly nothing could go on,—
Wer't but the rolling of a stone,
It roll'd not right without him.

Yet he would never follow rules;
Systems of colleges and schools
To him were all unknown;
And in mechanics and in trade
His calculations all were made
By systems of his own.
Few were his words, yet what he said
Had aye the ring of “go-ahead”—
Improvement was his passion;
Tho' into order much he brought,
You always found him in a coat
An age behind the fashion.

A feeling heart was in his breast,
And cruelty to man or beast
Found him a foe unsparing;
The two things which he could not bear,
Which to condemn he did not spare,
Were gossip and tale-bearing.
Newcomers, should their crops e'er fail,
Would come and tell their mournful tale,
And he would fill a sack;
It always seem'd to do him good
To give a hungry mortal food,
And send him smiling back.

If roughs assembled at a “bee,”
And, steaming with the “Barley Bree,”
They raged and roar'd and swagger'd,
As soon as e'er his face they saw
It held in reverential awe
The most regardless blackguard!
He had his enemies, no doubt—
Such men as he are ne'er without
A brood of spiteful lies;
Tho' styled by some “The Autocrat,”
He paid as small regard to that
As to the summer flies.

He sought not fame, nor did he e'er
Find fault with his too narrow sphere,
Tho' many a person said
He was the man who should be sent
To rule our rabble Parliament—
It wanted such a head.
And here he rul'd, and here he reign'd,
And no man lost by what he gain'd;
And here he lies at rest!
Yet may his mem'ry never fade,
And may the turf upon him laid
Lie lightly on his breast!