Classic Poem

“Deem now thyself, if thou hast dealt
such words as man to God should lift.
Thou sayest thou wilt dwell in this burgh;
'twere meet, methinks, first to ask leave;
and yet thou mightest miss the boon.
Thou wishest, too, to cross this stream;
first must thou reach another goal,—
colder thy corse must cling in clay;
'twas forfeit in grove of Paradise;
our forefather ill guarded it;
through dreary death each man must pass,
ere God deem right he cross this flood.”