Classic Poem

A NDREW was erst the village pride:
Oft 'neath the yew tree's shade
Both old and young with rapture hung
On wondrous words he said.
Now in the public bar he stands,
In a dizzy, drunken crew,
A lounging sot, in thread-bare coat,
His elbows peeping through.

How changed since when he touch'd our hearts,
As if with magic wand!
We thought that he would one day be
A wonder in the land;
For while he spake the ages all
Seem'd open to his view—
This gibb'ring sot, in thread-bare coat,
With lips of livid hue.

And from the wreck of old belief
What wondrous forms he drew!
And how he wrought disjointed thought
In pictures strange and new!
Who could have deem'd this mournful change
Would e'er have come to pass—
A seedy sot, in thread-bare coat,
Alas! and yet alas!

Is this the man of loving heart,
Which knew no crook nor wile?
For he was free as man could be
From ev'rything like guile;
His sense of moral worth remains,
Yet he does the thing that's mean—
A sneaking sot, in thread-bare coat,
He sinks to the obscene.

He still presents the lordly brow,
The great black, flashing eyes,
But wan despair is seated there,
“The worm that never dies.”
The princely port, the regal air,
The stately tread, are gone—
A palsied sot, in thread-bare coat,
To the grave he staggers on.

The ghost of former self will come,
And try to break his chain;
He'll curse the cup, he'll give it up,
Yet seek it once again.
How mournful are his gibes and jeers,
How sad to hear him sing—
That joyless sot, in thread-bare coat,
That God-forgotten thing!

The dreams of boyhood haunt him still,
They come but to annoy;
He fills the cup, he drains it up,
And laughs, the ghost of joy!
The wreck of richly-laden souls
Is a dire and fearful thing:
Oh! shun his lot, that sinking sot,
Whose dying dirge we sing.