Classic Poem

Send the red wine round to-night,
For the blast is bitter cold:
Let us sing a song that 's light;
Merry rhymes are good as gold.

Here 's unto our neighbour's health!
Oh! he plays the better part;
Doing good, — but not by stealth:
Is he not a noble heart?

Should you bid me tell his name, —
Show wherein his virtues dwell;
'Faith, (I speak it to my shame,)
I should scarce know what to tell.

" Is he — ? — " " Sir, he is a thing
Cast in common human clay;
'Tween a beggar and a king;
Fit to order or obey. "

" He is, then, a soldier brave? " —
" No; he doth not kill his kin,
Pampering the luxurious grave
With the blood and bones of sin. "

" Or a Judge? " — " He doth not sit
Making hucksters' bargains plain;
Piercing cobwebs with his wit;
Cutting tangled knots in twain. "

" He is an Abbot, then, at least? " —
" No, he is not proud and blithe:
Leaving prayer to humble priest,
Whilst he champs the golden tithe.

He is brave, but he is meek:
Not as judge or soldier seems;
Not like Abbot proud and sleek:
Yet his dreams are starry dreams, —

Such as lit the World of old
Through the darkness of her way;
Such as might, if clearly told,
Guide blind Future into day.

Never hath he sought to rise
On a friend's or neighbour's fall;
Never slurred a foe with lies:
Never shrunk from hunger's call:

But from morning until eve,
And through Autumn into Spring,
He hath kept his course, (believe,)
Courting neither slave nor king.

He, — whatever be his name,
For I know it not aright, —
He deserves a wider fame;
Come, — here 's to his health, to-night! "