A vision passed before me. On a mount
That glowed with light ineffable appeared
The New Year, in imperial garments clad,
Erect and tall and God-like in his mien,
With strength immortal in his manly limbs
And hope and courage beaming from his eyes.
And lo, swift breaking from the clouds, he saw
Coming in splendor like the morning sun,
The reunited Empire of the West,
Swelled on the ear the ever-murmuring hu
Of populous cities on unnumbered streams,
And marts of commerce by a hundred lakes.
The teeming fields, with varied harvests, waved,
And tinkling bells on distant hills revived
Sweet memories of Arcadia’s pastoral days.
Fair science led her train by every grove
And hill and stream, and pure religion filled
Her solemn temples with perpetual hymns
And fervent supplication to her God.
And from above the shades of years departed
Sang with a voice that filled the firmament:
“Hail, New Year, hail the noblest child of Time;
The Power which brought the fathers o’er the flood
Has saved the offspring from the sevenfold fire.
A Union healed shall date its life from thee,
Redemption’s golden era. From its shield
No star shall vanish in forlorn eclipse,
Nor exiled Pleiad chant in skies remote
Her solitary song, nor sundered be
The marriage bond of States, by law confirmed
And the eternal oracles of God.”
MONODY
ON THE DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
[Read at a Memorial Meeting, Nashville, held at the State House, April
16, 1865. Governor Brownlow delivered the address.]
Soft breathe the vernal winds, the sky is fair,
And April’s fragrance scents the dewy air.
Yon Heaven looks down on earth with eyes as mild
As a young mother’s on her sleeping child,
Jealous lest aught should break her infant’s calm,
And lulling its soft slumbers with a psalm.
So soft, so holy, comes the forest hymn,
From yon far hill-tops, misty, blue and dim,
While war’s discordant tumult seems to cease
In the sweet music of returning peace.
Yet where the fount of joy in crystal springs,
Some venomed asp its rankling poison flings,
And where the violets shed their fragrant breath
The nightshade pours the blistering dews of death
What bloody phantom with a brow of wrath
Stalks in the van of our triumphal path,
And o’er our banners flings a funeral veil,
Till Heaven grows black and mortal cheeks grow pale?
’Twas in the halls of mirth, a gala night,
Bright lamps o’er joyful thousands shed their light,
The nation’s Father sat amid the throng,
Relaxed his brow and heard the festal song;
He dreams not of conspiracy, nor sees
Above his head the sword of Damocles;
Wide opes the sepulchre its marble jaws,
All nature seems to make a breathless pause;
The deadly aim is made--the death-shot flies,
And Freedom’s martyr passes to the skies.
Oh, Statesman, Hero, Patriot, Friend, and Sire,
Now the pale tenant of a funeral pyre,
Whose red right hand four years has held the rod,
The minister of Freedom and of God,
Yet with the rod the blooming olive held,
While the dark deluge of rebellion swelled
And thundered round our Ark--an Argosy
More dear than all the jewels of the sea,
And still with outstretched arms essayed to save
The shipwrecked seamen from the yawning wave!
Thy love was strong as woman’s--who like thee
Their interceding angel now shall be?
A genial wit, a homely native sense,
Nearer to truth than studied eloquence,
A quiet courage to defend the right,
And leave to Heaven the issue of the fight;
A will of adamant, which seemed to be
The very flower of maiden modesty,
A conscience, holding truth of greater worth
Than all the crowns and treasures of the earth;
A love, whose strong affections seemed to bind
In one the happiness of all mankind;
These were the jewels whose celestial flame
Shall burn with quenchless glow round Lincoln’s name,
The virtues which shall make his memory dear
While Justice reigns in yon eternal sphere.
And millions shall lament, with honest grief,
The People’s friend and Freedom’s fallen chief;
The huntsman shall forget the eager chase,
And pause to wipe his weatherbeaten face,
The daring sailor, on the distant sea,
Shall shed a teardrop to his memory;
The widow’s tears shall quench her cottage fire,
The soldier’s orphan moan his second sire.
There need no glittering trappings of the tomb,
No martial dirge, nor hearse with nodding plume,
To tell their grief; but words devoid of art
Show how this stroke has pierced the Nation’s heart.
Precious the tears shall be the Nation weeps,
And sacred be the sod where Lincoln sleeps.
His fame shall be the jewel of the West,
Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast.
Mourn, O ye Mountains!--altars of the sky--
Fit monuments of him who cannot die;
Mourn, loud Atlantic! let thy thunder-dirge
Chant the sad requiem with Pacific’s surge.
Mourn, O New England! on thy granite base.
Mourn, Illinois, thy desolate dwelling-place;
Kentucky, mourn! thy second God-like son
Sleeps in the dust, life’s duty nobly done;
Mourn, Tennessee! The Hero of the Age
Sleeps with the Lion of the Hermitage;
Chanted the melancholy song shall be,
By all thy streams which hasten to the sea,
While Nashville’s echoing wall of cedared hills
With mournful cadence all the valley fills.
WASHINGTON’S BIRTHDAY ODE.
[Written for a celebration given by the young ladies of Elder Enos
Campbell’s School, Hopkinsville, February 22, 1861.]
Hero, whose ashes sleep
By Vernon’s sacred steep,
Sire of the free!
To-day thy name be blessed
North, South, East and West,
And swell each patriot’s breast
With love to thee.
Through tempests drear and dark
The Union’s holy ark
Thy hand did guide;
The ark which rode the flood
Of Revolution’s blood
For freedom’s mighty God
Was on thy side.
Where’er thy eagles flew
The world our glory knew
In war and peace.
Safe ’neath the fig and vine
Our fathers did recline,
And field and wave and mine
Gave rich increase.
Oh, that to-day might yield
Once more the sword and shield
Of Washington!
Then freedom’s songs sublime
Should peal in thrilling chime
And, ’til remotest time,
The States be one.
TO APRIL.
[DEDICATED TO THE WEATHER BUREAU.]
(Begun April 1.)
Sweet month of blue-eyed violets and fools,
I’m glad to see you, dear. Take off your bonnet,
While to your praise I pen a flowing sonnet.
A thousand misses in the boarding-schools
Now do the same on gilt-edged, scented paper,
And bite their nails and trim the midnight taper.
The clear lake like a polished mirror glows
In the seraphic loveliness of morn;
The speckled trout leap from their crystal pools,
Waking the startled skylark’s mellow horn;
On every hand new beauties still are born,
Till lingering sunset’s amethystine blaze
Illumes the vault of heaven with its far-streaming rays.
(Finished April 10.)
Thus far without impediment I got,
My sleek Pegasus on an easy gallop,
Or ambling steady or on cosy trot
Smooth-scudding o’er the airy fields of thought,
As a Venetian gondola or shallop.
To halt with sudden bump my pencil’s brought.
“I can not tell a lie!” (Spring poems are “rot.”)
Now all my pretty phrases come to naught.
It’s just a shame! But then who would have thought--
Wild polar blizzards, snow and blinding sleet
Beat my Pegasus and benumbed his feet?
And, most unlucky mishap for a poet,
The brute has got the studs and will not go it.
One solid hour of labor have I lost--
I can’t write summer songs in winter’s frost.
O April, sure you did not count the cost
Of your confounded jag! I think you’re drunk!
Well, bluster if you want to show your spunk.
The Weather Bureau’s all turned inside out--
But pray clear up, Miss April, or clear out!
ODE ON THE DEATH OF LEO XIII.
DEDICATED TO MRS. MARY ANDERSON NAVARRO, LONDON.
I see before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand--his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony.
--_Childe Harold._
The Eternal City, shrine of many lands,
Slow fades; before his dying gaze expands
The Golden-streeted City, not made with hands;
Hail him with waving palms and loving eyes,
Heaven’s solemn choirs and sweet societies,
While sobs below him the great church he trod--
“To Cæsar, Cæsar’s; God’s we yield to God.”
Life’s duty done, he ends his manly part,
Stop the great throbbings of that true, pure heart;
Amid a sorrowing people’s prayers and tears,
God greets the saint of two-and-ninety years.
Not for the lust of luxury and beauty,
Not for the miser’s or the conqueror’s booty,
But for the still small voice of duty
Bravely did all temptation spurn
The immortal Lion of Lucerne.
The Lion is at rest,
With his awe-inspiring crest,
In full-maned majesty and strength he has laid him down to rest.
Of all earth’s mortal monarchs the bravest, strongest, best,
His bright eye kindled with the love of Jesus and the Cross.
Who gave mankind the Light Divine
To save the world from loss.
His grand life work is o’er,
And nations now deplore
The Lion of the Vatican, the warrior of the cross,
From Italy’s bay-indented shore
To where Columbia’s eagles soar,
Is heard the voice of weeping,
For the Lion softly sleeping,
The Lion of the Vatican,
Who never feared the face of man--
The Lion o’er whose urn
The mounting flames of glory burn;
Who died in duty’s harness--the Lion of Lucerne.
He sleeps, but not forsaken,
For the Judgment trump shall blow,
Its blast of joy or woe.
The nations of the dead shall rise
And the Lion of the Vatican shall waken.
Once in earth’s Gethsemane by all but God forsaken!
With glory crested on his head and splendor in his eyes,
The kingdoms gather round the great white throne
To hear the final sentence
Of all who seek or scorn repentance.
Long ere the dreadful conflagration
Which shall consume each nation,
Along each height or hollow shore,
Loud shall reverberate the roar
Which made the iron Bismarck bow
Before the Lion’s calm, majestic brow;
Which bade the hostile cannon cease
And harmless pave the paths of peace,
Who walked where princely Virgil trod
And then like Enoch walked with God.
Be patient, then, O Zion!
And wait the wakening of the Lion
Be patient still, for soon
Thy God shall grant the boon
Of universal peace;
And War’s red banner shall be furled
Throughout all the world.
Paul Kruger’s diamond bribe[C] was worth
The ransom of a hundred kings;
Yet diamonds and pearls and all
The riches of this world have wings;
The Lion held God’s treasure fast--
Honor and truth and Heaven at last.
CHIABRERA’S EPITAPH.
Chiabrera, an Italian poet, is said to have written the following
inscription for his tomb:
“Friend, I while living sought comfort in Parnassus;
Do thou, better counselled, seek it in Calvary.”
The setting sun shone down the Apennines,
Gilding Vesuvius and his purpling vines,
And his dark collonades of whispering pines.
The tinkling bells of the returning flocks
Rang through the lengthening shadows of the rocks
And grateful coolness filled the shepherd’s walks.
The Star of Evening trembled in the West,
Like a rich pearl on Beauty’s throbbing breast,
And Heaven was all aglow with rapture blest.
Upon his death-couch Chiabrera lay,
Life’s waning lights across his features play
Like the last beams of yon declining day.
And as departing day its glory shed
Bright on the group which gathered round his bed,
In faltering words the dying poet said:
“Chill blow the gales across the sea of Death,
Upon my brow I feel their icy breath--
And the bright star of song forsakes my path.
“No more Apollo’s mount shall I behold--
The rainbow mist that round its summit rolled
Fades into clouds all joyless, dark and cold.
“The groves are withered on Parnassus’ side;
The fields are dead--the streams no longer glide,
And every fount by fiery heat is dried.
“All dumb and shattered lies Apollo’s shell,
Broke are the chords my fingers loved so well,
Mourning the hand that wove their fairy spell.
“Dread Calvary! beneath thy sheltering rock
Oh, let the gentle Shepherd of the flock
Shield me in mercy from the tempest’s shock;
“There from the pelting storm and bitter blast,
My weary soul its refuge finds at last.
Behold the Cross! The pang of Death is past.
“Parnassus! up whose steeps I long have striven,
Thy summit, by the thunder-tempest riven,
Stops in the clouds--but Calvary’s rests in Heaven.”
ELEGY
On the death of Captain Bacon, Kentucky Volunteers, U. S. A., slain at
Sacraments, Ky., December, 1861.
Oh, sacred mountain of Kentucky’s dead,
Room in thy heart for Bacon’s honored head,
Whose true blood streaming from his manly breast
Shall dye with glories new thy marble crest,
And caught by every sun upon the air
Appeal to Heaven in everlasting prayer--
Prayer for the rescue of our outraged land,
From dark rebellion’s impious sword and brand;
Prayer for the fiery bolt by justice sped
To fall in vengeance for our slaughtered dead;
Prayer which, becoming of the winds a part,
Through all the land shall stir the nation’s heart,
And summon martial millions to the field
A patriot host, the nation’s living shield.
Promethean sun! whose early splendors kiss
These pillars of Death’s grand Acropolis,
Of Boone the daring, Johnson stern and just,
Hardin the true, and Daveiss’ glorious dust,
Much-loved McKee, and gallant Henry Clay,--
Oft as thy torch illumes the morning gray
Touch Bacon’s tomb with thy reviving fire
And it shall answer thee like Memnon’s lyre,
With an inspiring voice whose kindling strain
Shall rouse Kentucky to avenge her slain,
And shed his base assassin’s blood as free
As yonder waves which hasten to the sea.
Oh, much-loved friend, for manly virtues dear,
Untimely up yon hill ascends thy bier.
We knew that _with_ or _on_ thy stainless shield
We would receive thee from the battle-field!
True to Kentucky’s and thy country’s call
Thou wert the first to arm thee--and to fall.
The plaintive dirge, the sob, the smothered groan
Thrill the pained air with melancholy moan,
While the slow river winding far below
Whispers through all its waves the song of woe,
And Frankfort’s echoing wall of cedared hills
With mournful cadence all the valley fills.
TO THE LAW AND ORDER LEAGUE.
AFTER JUDGE BRUCE’S ADDRESS At Hopkinsville.
Take courage, ye people of order and law,
Nor longer let Night Riders hold you in awe;
Though your crops be destroyed, your barns burnt in ashes,
Your women outraged, your backs scourged with lashes,
Take courage! Remember that God reigns on high
Who foredooms your tyrants ’neath His vengeance to die.
When bad men conspire, let all good men unite;
All crime must be conquered by organized Right.
Though Satan conspire to persecute Job,
And muster all demons which travel the globe,
Though disease, war, and whirlwinds on all sides surround
And the wife of his bosom be treacherous found;
Though Judas and High Priest ’gainst Jesus plot,
Though Herod and Pilate His overthrow sought;
Though King George and Lord North and base Arnold swear
That Sam Adams and Hancock shall hang in the air;
Though the flood shall a whole world of wickedness drown,
Noah’s Ark shall land safely on Ararat’s crown.
So virtue shall triumph, ’tis Heaven’s decree,
And God’s law shall rule o’er the land and the sea
Job sees all his losses by Heaven restored,
Quelled Satan retreats at the frown of the Lord--
And Cornwallis at Yorktown surrenders his sword.
And ye citizens banded for order and law
No more let the Night Riders fill you with awe,
Though croaking Glenraven plays the treacherous friend,
And croaks at the crimes which he dares not defend,
Though he reprimands gently his infamous tools,
His _alibi_ G----s and his Paddy McCools.
Remember, good citizens, nor harbor one doubt
That your vengeance is sure and that murder will out--
That the scoundrels who whipped the bare backs of your wives
Shall pay the full penalty down with their lives.
Remember, Night Riders, your infamous wrong
Was the wrong of an hour, but its vengeance is long;
There are crimes so inhuman, ’twere a crime to forgive;
Who scourges a woman ’twere a crime to let live.
Your lash unresisted mangled woman’s tender back,
And till death her avenger shall press on your track.
Then rally, O citizens, from border to border,
One phalanx to fight for Law, Justice, and Order.
Kentucky has no place for the Night Rider’s foot;
What patriot tongue does not scorn to be mute?
Remember all history repeats the same tale,
That the wicked shall fail and the righteous prevail.
Unite! and your deeds shall be crowned with success,
Cheered on like old Scotland by “Bruce’s Address.”
Yes; though Lucifer, “Star of the Morning,” rebel,
His doom shall be closed in the torments of Hell.
“Black Hands,” Mafias, and Night Riders, birds of one feather,
Must go to the prison or scaffold together.
“WITH THY SHIELD, OR UPON IT.”[D]
DEDICATED TO COL. R. M. KELLY, SUPERINTENDENT OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY,
LOUISVILLE.
[The loss of a shield was regarded as peculiarly disgraceful by the
Greek soldiers. The dead were borne home upon their shields. “Return
with thy shield, my son, or upon it,” was the heroic injunction of a
Spartan mother.]
Sound, trumpet sound! The die is cast!
The Rubicon of fate is passed!
The loyal and the rebel hosts,
Kentucky, throng thy leaguered coasts,
And on the issue of the strife
Hang peace and liberty and life;
All that the storied past endears,
And all the hopes of coming years;
The startled world looks on the field.
Thou canst not fly--thou dar’st not yield--
Then strike! and make thy foeman feel
Thy triply consecrated steel,
And with or on thy shining shield
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Strike! though the battle’s dead be strown
O’er land and wave from zone to zone;
Strike! though the gulf of human blood
Roll o’er thee like the primal flood.
Treason at home--beyond the sea--
Its ally, ancient tyranny,
Democracy’s relentless foe,
Aim at thy heart their deadliest blow;
Freedom’s last hope remains with thee,
Oh, army of democracy;
Then lead thy martial hosts abroad
In the grand panoply of God,
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
Wave, banners, wave, and let the sky
Glow with your flashing wings on high;
There’s music in each rustling fold
Sweeter than minstrel ever told;
Oh, who that ever heard the story
Of all our dead who fell in glory,
Still pressing where the starry light
Streamed like a meteor o’er the fight,
Till their expiring bosoms poured
The red libation of the sword,
Would leave Kentucky now, or thrust
Her beaming forehead in the dust,
Where treason’s reptiles writhe and hiss
Like fiends shut out from Eden’s bliss?
Better the freeman’s lowliest grave
Than golden fetters of a slave;
Then with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
If bribed by lust of power or gold
Thy country’s welfare thou hast sold,
Iscariot-like thy name shall be
In Freedom’s dark Gethsemane;
Disgrace and fell remorse shall plow
Eternal furrows o’er thy brow;
By angels, men, and fiends abhorred,
Like Judas who betrayed his Lord.
Outcast at home--across the sea
Shunned like a leper thou shalt be,
No spring shall slake thy burning thirst,
The fire shall shun thee as accursed
Day shall be cheerless--no repose
At night thy swollen eye shall close--
Lift to indignant Heaven thine eye,
Curse God in black despair, and die!
Kentucky, hast thou son so base,
Thy fame unsullied would disgrace?
Attaint his blood, disown his race,
His line, his very name efface.
Then charge! thy grand battalions free
From all attaint of treachery--
Charge on thy foes! make all the air
Vocal with freedom’s holiest prayer,
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field!
State of the “Dark and Bloody Ground,”
The trumpet peals its final sound
Down every mountain height arrayed
Comes thundering on the long brigade;
By every valley, pass, and river,
Sabres and bayonets flash and quiver;
Shame to the faithless son who falters
When impious hands assail their altars,
And fill each fount of happiness
With waves of woe and bitterness;
The dead their august shades present
By Frankfort’s Battle Monument;
Not now their souls can be at rest,
Though in the Islands of the Blest--
“Remember us,” their voices cry,
“When comes the hour of conflict nigh,”
And with or on thy shining shield,
Return, Kentucky, from the field.
CONFIRMATION AT ST. ANDREW’S.
[TO AGNES, LOUISVILLE.]
I send this morning, Agnes dear,
A white and fragrant flower,
Emblem of maiden Hope and Love,
In Confirmation’s hour.
O, may the blessings which descend
This moment on thy head
On thy pure virgin heart and soul
Like precious fragrance shed.
I in life’s evening gloaming walk,
Thou in the morning bright,
Night’s blossoms I unfolding see,
Thou the Auroral light--
Yet all my heart in sympathy
Attends thy morning dreams,
For well I know the bitterness
Of life’s delusive streams.
A morning calm, a storm at eve,
At morn we joy, ere night we grieve:
So when the falling April showers,
Bringing the joy of birds and flowers,
’Neath the quick brush of golden sun
Catch rainbow colors one by one,
The liquid gems quick fade away
In dismal vapors cold and gray.
Lo, Juliet’s girlish bridal bed
With funeral flowers is quickly spread
Ere the brief marriage vows are said.
Sleeping in Capulet’s vault below
Her wedding night with Romeo.
Not “True Love’s Course” alone, but Man’s,
Never ran smooth since Time began,
Even ’mid the thunder shouts of friends
McKinley’s breast the bullet rends.
Wisdom, Wealth, Pleasure, Glory, Power,
Made Judah’s king rejoice:
Song, dance, and wine flowed free,--“Now comes
God’s judgment!” spoke a voice,
For earth is vain and life is frail
Since first the world began;
To fear and serve the living God
Is the whole lot of man.
Drink then, sweet Agnes, from the Fount
Of Christ’s Eternal Truth,
Till He shall bear thee o’er Death’s stream
To everlasting Youth.
THE CHRISTMAS FLOWER.
ON A FLORAL CARD.
Far sweeter than the rose
Which all the year round blows
On Cashmere’s fragrant bosom,
Is the fair flower which grows
Amid December snows;--
’Tis friendship’s Christmas blossom.
Its loving arms expanding,
The Christmas cross is standing,
The guide-post of the ages,
To point to realms of glory
And charm with simple story
The children and the sages.
Red rose and pallid lily,
Pansy and daffodilly,
Chrysanthemum and myrtle,
Around the cross are clinging
With wooing and sweet singing
Of nightingale and turtle.
The frozen Arctic splinter
Shot from the bow of winter
Will lose its power to harm us,
While dreams of childhood’s Christmas,
’Twixt heaven and earth an isthmus,
In nightly visions charm us.
The angry gale may shatter
Sweet Cashmere’s rose and scatter
Its leaves o’er vale and river;
The Christmas flower shall thrive
As long as Love shall live,
Forever and forever!
TO THE SOLDIERS OF GENERAL DUMONT’S COMMAND.[E]
NASHVILLE, TENN., 1862.
Ye soldiers of the Union
With holiest valor fired,
To shield the land whose sacred cause
Your father’s souls inspired--
Strike at yon black rebellion,
Like a thunderbolt of dread,
For the safety of the living
And the memory of the dead!
Bright Banner of the Union!
By beauty’s fingers wrought,
Around the world thy lesson
Of glory has been taught.
It tells of deathless battle-fields,
To fame and freedom dear,
And speaks of peace and happiness
To man’s enraptured ear.
Bright altar of the Union!
Around thy spotless shrine,
We swear disunion ne’er shall touch
Thy offering divine!
For our dead would sleep dishonored
And the living have no hope,
If in rebellion’s starless night
Our land were doomed to grope.
Charge, soldiers of the Union,
In truth’s eternal might,
Ye strike not for the lust of power,
But liberty and right.
The present and the Future plead--
The past full well ye know--
Strike home as your forefathers struck
And Heaven will guide the blow!
THE TWO GORDONS.
Dedicated to Mrs. Anna M. D. Gordon, Medical Missionary at Mungeli,
India.
“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages;
Thou thy worldly task has done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.”
--General Gordon’s epitaph, from “Imogen’s Dirge,” in
Cymbeline.
General George Gordon, Khartoum, Egypt, January 26, 1885.
Reverend E. M. Gordon, Hopkinsville, Ky., June 2, 1908.
In the mystic land of Egypt,
In the streets of old Khartoum,
O’er the grave of martyred Gordon
Does the rose of England bloom;
By Mahdi, the false prophet,
Borne down in hopeless strife,
The Christian hero Gordon
Laid down his priceless life.
Thou Circean Cleopatra,
Of legendary Nile,
Luring to death the Roman Prince
By thy pernicious smile
A wine-inflamed and sensuous girl,
Frenzied by passion’s giddy whirl,
Thou once dissolved and drank a pearl
Inflamed by bacchanal applause,
Unworthy of a sovereign’s cause.
Hadst thou the pearl which Gordon found--
The pearl of boundless price--
The healing drink had cleansed thy soul
Like Magdalen’s sacrifice.
Egypt redeemed had hailed the morn
To a new life forever born,
[Illustration: REV. E. M. GORDON
His wife, Anna M. D. Gordon, Missionaries at Mungeli, India, and
daughter]
And in thy glittering diadem
Had shone the Cross--the hallowed gem
Worn by the Babe of Bethlehem,
Nor Africa had sent her fettered slaves
To fatal fields and mines and Middle Passage graves.
From the mystic land of India,
In the flower of stalwart manhood,
Another Gordon came--
Counsellor, preacher, teacher--
The foster son of Hopkinsville,
Fearless and without blame;
No gem in India’s richest mines
Shot forth a purer flame.