The Proud Farmer

Into the acres of the newborn state

He poured his strength, and plowed his ancient name,

And, when the traders followed him, he stood

Towering above their furtive souls and tame.

That brow without a stain, that fearless eye

Oft left the passing stranger wondering

To find such knighthood in the sprawling land,

To see a democrat well-nigh a king.

He lived with liberal hand, with guests from far,

With talk and joke and fellowship to spare,—

Watching the wide world's life from sun to sun,

Lining his walls with books from everywhere.

He read by night, he built his world by day.

The farm and house of God to him were one.

For forty years he preached and plowed and wrought —

A statesman in the fields, who bent to none.

His plowmen-neighbors were as lords to him.

His was an ironside, democratic pride.

He served a rigid Christ, but served him well —

And, for a lifetime, saved the countryside.

Here lie the dead, who gave the church their best

Under his fiery preaching of the word.

They sleep with him beneath the ragged grass...

The village withers, by his voice unstirred.

And tho’ his tribe be scattered to the wind

From the Atlantic to the China sea,

Yet do they think of that bright lamp he burned

Of family worth and proud integrity.

And many a sturdy grandchild hears his name

In reverence spoken, till he feels akin

To all the lion-eyed who built the world —

And lion-dreams begin to burn within.