Classic Poem

THROUGH a sea-port he pass'd,
Ship-masted, reading from that Book the best,
By firesides poor, and couches of coarse weeds,
" Come unto Me, and rest. "

The careless toper yawn'd,
The wicked turn'd their ears to other sound,
Blasphemy blush'd, and the poor harlot's thoughts
Were on her lovers bound.

Still on the reader pass'd
Through sheds peace-stript, o'erlorded by the strong:
" The wine-cup of His wrath is almost full, "
And fatten'd vice and wrong.

The sea of darkness roar'd,
Its huge waves rock'd the city. Thus he cried,
" I have no pleasure in the sinner's death, "
And onward swept the tide.

Where Need lay down to die,
With grey locks falling o'er his temples sere,
Howling his spirit forth, " Believe, and live, "
Was his evangel clear.

Then into one poor shed
He turn'd discouraged, but much comfort came
From dying woman's almost sainted lips,
Blessing the reader's name.

And those who visit now
That old sea-port, if they attention give,
On fresh winds passing through the passages,
May hear, " Believe, and live. "