Classic Poem

A DOWN the lane a traveller hied,
What time the cuckoo told
His oft-repeated pleasant tale
Among the green and gold;
And o'er the white clouds floating slow,
Their western way along,
The skylark, hidden in the height,
Pour'd forth his sweetest song.

A group of children, by a tree,
Were playing in the sun;
And much this thoughtful traveller joy'd
To see them dance and run.
In their sweet strain of innocence
His glad soul took its share;
As it gush'd gladly from their lips,
And rang upon the air.

And as he join'd them in their sports,
And help'd them in their play,
These little seeds from Truth's full store
He scatter'd by the way.
“Our Saviour God came down from heaven,
And died upon the tree;
He says of children, ‘Suffer them
To come, and follow Me!’”

Then onward down the shady lane,
Near which a streamlet ran,
With holy sweetness in his face,
Pass'd on that pleasant man.
And in the distant future years,
As slowly on they came,
The seed sprang up, and bore much fruit
To the Redeemer's name.

One gain'd a Missionary's meed,
A Missionary's grave;
And one a Pastor much beloved,
Who all to Jesus gave.
And one, he was a man of peace,
The pen his battle-blade;
With which he noble victories won,
And mighty conquests made.

And planting thus those seeds of thought,
A large increase was given;
When water'd by the Spirit's hand,
And bless'd by bounteous Heaven.
Still let the Gospel sower strive
To bless this smitten clime:
For, lo, a mighty harvest waves
Along the vales of time.