Classic Poem

A FARMER at our sea-side door
Knock'd loud one autumn day,
Who said his wife was ill; he wish'd
That I would come away,
And read the Bible by her bed:
" 'T was time, " he said, " to pray. "

I walk'd alone, through twisted lanes,
And on by quiet leas;
And sometimes met a group well-dress'd,
Who rambled at their ease.
And soon in solemn mood I gain'd
A cottage 'mid the trees.

A vine had clamber'd o'er its wall.
From out the garden-patch;
Its topmost branches reach'd the eaves,
And rested on the thatch.
And, in the doorway, robin sang,
Upon the wooden latch.

In sooth, it was a picture fair,
I could not but admire
This dwelling-place beside the lake,
Where caroll'd Nature's choir;
Nor roar'd the dusty multitude,
Nor hiss'd the city fire.

Within a chamber white and clean,
A feeble matron lay;
Whose spirit seem'd about to leave
The fever-smitten clay,
And naked and alone to walk
Along the spirit-way.

I read the story of His love,
Found in the Book Divine;
Who came to seek and save the lost,
And none need now repine:
The barren branch may grafted be
In Christ, the living Vine.

I saw the tear upon her face,
And rapture in her eye;
Her blessing follow'd as I went,
That Christ would still be nigh;
And if no more we met below,
Our rest was in the sky.

And as I closed the farm-yard gate,
A wonder fill'd my mind,
That I religiously should be
A comfort to my kind;
The weakest of the very weak,
So far the good behind.

So, pacing on my homeward way,
Thus mused I by the sea;
" The greatest miracle below
Is, that a worm like me
Should aid the erring child of earth
To travel up to Thee. "