BARCLAY OF URY
Upthe streets of Aberdeen,By the kirk and college green,Rode the Laird of Ury;Close behind him, close beside,Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,Pressed the mob in fury.Flouted him the drunken churl,Jeered at him the serving-girl,Prompt to please her master;And the begging carlin, lateFed and clothed at Ury’s gate,Cursed him as he passed her.Yet, with calm and stately mien,Up the streets of AberdeenCame he slowly riding;And, to all he saw and heard,Answering not with bitter word,Turning not for chiding.Came a troop with broadswords swinging,Bits and bridles sharply ringing,Loose and free and froward;Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down!Push him! prick him! through the townDrive the Quaker coward!”But from out the thickening crowdCried a sudden voice and loud;“Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!”And the old man at his sideSaw a comrade, battle-tried,Scarred and sunburned darkly,Who with ready weapon bare,Fronting to the troopers there,Cried aloud: “God save us!Call ye coward him who stoodAnkle deep in Lützen’s blood,With the brave Gustavus?”“Nay, I do not need thy sword,Comrade mine,” said Ury’s lord;“Put it up, I pray thee:Passive to His holy will,Trust I in my Master still,Even though He slay me.“Pledges of thy love and faith,Proved on many a field of death,Not by me are needed.”Marvelled much that henchman bold,That his Laird, so stout of old,Now so meekly pleaded.“Woe’s the day!” he sadly said,With a slowly shaking head,And a look of pity;“Ury’s honest lord reviled,Mock of knave and sport of child,In his own good city!“Speak the word, and, master mine,As we charged on Tilly’s line,And his Walloon lancers,Smiting thro’ their midst we’ll teachCivil look and decent speechTo these boyish prancers!”“Marvel not, mine ancient friend,Like beginning, like the end,”Quoth the Laird of Ury;“Is the sinful servant moreThan his gracious Lord who boreBonds and stripes in Jewry?“Give me joy that in His name,I can bear, with patient frame,All these vain ones offer;While for them He suffereth long,Shall I answer wrong with wrong,Scoffing with the scoffer?“Happier I, with loss of all,Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,With few friends to greet me,Than when reeve and squire were seen,Riding out from Aberdeen,With bared heads to meet me.“When each goodwife, o’er and o’er,Blessed me as I passed her door;And the snooded daughter,Through her casement glancing down,Smiled on him who bore renownFrom red fields of slaughter.“Hard to feel the stranger’s scoff,Hard the old friend’s falling off,Hard to learn forgiving;But the Lord His own rewards,And His love with theirs accords,Warm and fresh and living.“Through this dark and stormy nightFaith beholds a feeble light,Up the blackness streaking;Knowing God’s own time is best,In a patient hope I restFor the full day-breaking!”So the Laird of Ury said,Turning slow his horse’s head,Towards the Tolbooth prison,Where through iron gates he heardPoor disciples of the WordPreach of Christ arisen!Not in vain, Confessor old,Unto us the tale is toldOf thy day of trial;Every age on him who straysFrom its broad and beaten waysPours its seven-fold vial.Happy he whose inward earAngel comfortings can hear,O’er the rabble’s laughter;And while Hatred’s fagots burn,Glimpses through the smoke discernOf the good hereafter.Knowing this, that never yetShare of Truth was vainly setIn the world’s wide fallow;After hands shall sow the seed,After hands from hill and meadReap the harvests yellow.Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,Must the moral pioneerFrom the future borrow;Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,And, on midnight’s sky of rain,Paint the golden morrow!
Upthe streets of Aberdeen,By the kirk and college green,Rode the Laird of Ury;Close behind him, close beside,Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,Pressed the mob in fury.Flouted him the drunken churl,Jeered at him the serving-girl,Prompt to please her master;And the begging carlin, lateFed and clothed at Ury’s gate,Cursed him as he passed her.Yet, with calm and stately mien,Up the streets of AberdeenCame he slowly riding;And, to all he saw and heard,Answering not with bitter word,Turning not for chiding.Came a troop with broadswords swinging,Bits and bridles sharply ringing,Loose and free and froward;Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down!Push him! prick him! through the townDrive the Quaker coward!”But from out the thickening crowdCried a sudden voice and loud;“Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!”And the old man at his sideSaw a comrade, battle-tried,Scarred and sunburned darkly,Who with ready weapon bare,Fronting to the troopers there,Cried aloud: “God save us!Call ye coward him who stoodAnkle deep in Lützen’s blood,With the brave Gustavus?”“Nay, I do not need thy sword,Comrade mine,” said Ury’s lord;“Put it up, I pray thee:Passive to His holy will,Trust I in my Master still,Even though He slay me.“Pledges of thy love and faith,Proved on many a field of death,Not by me are needed.”Marvelled much that henchman bold,That his Laird, so stout of old,Now so meekly pleaded.“Woe’s the day!” he sadly said,With a slowly shaking head,And a look of pity;“Ury’s honest lord reviled,Mock of knave and sport of child,In his own good city!“Speak the word, and, master mine,As we charged on Tilly’s line,And his Walloon lancers,Smiting thro’ their midst we’ll teachCivil look and decent speechTo these boyish prancers!”“Marvel not, mine ancient friend,Like beginning, like the end,”Quoth the Laird of Ury;“Is the sinful servant moreThan his gracious Lord who boreBonds and stripes in Jewry?“Give me joy that in His name,I can bear, with patient frame,All these vain ones offer;While for them He suffereth long,Shall I answer wrong with wrong,Scoffing with the scoffer?“Happier I, with loss of all,Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,With few friends to greet me,Than when reeve and squire were seen,Riding out from Aberdeen,With bared heads to meet me.“When each goodwife, o’er and o’er,Blessed me as I passed her door;And the snooded daughter,Through her casement glancing down,Smiled on him who bore renownFrom red fields of slaughter.“Hard to feel the stranger’s scoff,Hard the old friend’s falling off,Hard to learn forgiving;But the Lord His own rewards,And His love with theirs accords,Warm and fresh and living.“Through this dark and stormy nightFaith beholds a feeble light,Up the blackness streaking;Knowing God’s own time is best,In a patient hope I restFor the full day-breaking!”So the Laird of Ury said,Turning slow his horse’s head,Towards the Tolbooth prison,Where through iron gates he heardPoor disciples of the WordPreach of Christ arisen!Not in vain, Confessor old,Unto us the tale is toldOf thy day of trial;Every age on him who straysFrom its broad and beaten waysPours its seven-fold vial.Happy he whose inward earAngel comfortings can hear,O’er the rabble’s laughter;And while Hatred’s fagots burn,Glimpses through the smoke discernOf the good hereafter.Knowing this, that never yetShare of Truth was vainly setIn the world’s wide fallow;After hands shall sow the seed,After hands from hill and meadReap the harvests yellow.Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,Must the moral pioneerFrom the future borrow;Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,And, on midnight’s sky of rain,Paint the golden morrow!
Upthe streets of Aberdeen,By the kirk and college green,Rode the Laird of Ury;Close behind him, close beside,Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,Pressed the mob in fury.
Upthe streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Pressed the mob in fury.
Flouted him the drunken churl,Jeered at him the serving-girl,Prompt to please her master;And the begging carlin, lateFed and clothed at Ury’s gate,Cursed him as he passed her.
Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,
Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury’s gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.
Yet, with calm and stately mien,Up the streets of AberdeenCame he slowly riding;And, to all he saw and heard,Answering not with bitter word,Turning not for chiding.
Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;
And, to all he saw and heard,
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,Bits and bridles sharply ringing,Loose and free and froward;Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down!Push him! prick him! through the townDrive the Quaker coward!”
Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,
Loose and free and froward;
Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! through the town
Drive the Quaker coward!”
But from out the thickening crowdCried a sudden voice and loud;“Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!”And the old man at his sideSaw a comrade, battle-tried,Scarred and sunburned darkly,
But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud;
“Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!”
And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle-tried,
Scarred and sunburned darkly,
Who with ready weapon bare,Fronting to the troopers there,Cried aloud: “God save us!Call ye coward him who stoodAnkle deep in Lützen’s blood,With the brave Gustavus?”
Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,
Cried aloud: “God save us!
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lützen’s blood,
With the brave Gustavus?”
“Nay, I do not need thy sword,Comrade mine,” said Ury’s lord;“Put it up, I pray thee:Passive to His holy will,Trust I in my Master still,Even though He slay me.
“Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine,” said Ury’s lord;
“Put it up, I pray thee:
Passive to His holy will,
Trust I in my Master still,
Even though He slay me.
“Pledges of thy love and faith,Proved on many a field of death,Not by me are needed.”Marvelled much that henchman bold,That his Laird, so stout of old,Now so meekly pleaded.
“Pledges of thy love and faith,
Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed.”
Marvelled much that henchman bold,
That his Laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.
“Woe’s the day!” he sadly said,With a slowly shaking head,And a look of pity;“Ury’s honest lord reviled,Mock of knave and sport of child,In his own good city!
“Woe’s the day!” he sadly said,
With a slowly shaking head,
And a look of pity;
“Ury’s honest lord reviled,
Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!
“Speak the word, and, master mine,As we charged on Tilly’s line,And his Walloon lancers,Smiting thro’ their midst we’ll teachCivil look and decent speechTo these boyish prancers!”
“Speak the word, and, master mine,
As we charged on Tilly’s line,
And his Walloon lancers,
Smiting thro’ their midst we’ll teach
Civil look and decent speech
To these boyish prancers!”
“Marvel not, mine ancient friend,Like beginning, like the end,”Quoth the Laird of Ury;“Is the sinful servant moreThan his gracious Lord who boreBonds and stripes in Jewry?
“Marvel not, mine ancient friend,
Like beginning, like the end,”
Quoth the Laird of Ury;
“Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?
“Give me joy that in His name,I can bear, with patient frame,All these vain ones offer;While for them He suffereth long,Shall I answer wrong with wrong,Scoffing with the scoffer?
“Give me joy that in His name,
I can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?
“Happier I, with loss of all,Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,With few friends to greet me,Than when reeve and squire were seen,Riding out from Aberdeen,With bared heads to meet me.
“Happier I, with loss of all,
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,
With few friends to greet me,
Than when reeve and squire were seen,
Riding out from Aberdeen,
With bared heads to meet me.
“When each goodwife, o’er and o’er,Blessed me as I passed her door;And the snooded daughter,Through her casement glancing down,Smiled on him who bore renownFrom red fields of slaughter.
“When each goodwife, o’er and o’er,
Blessed me as I passed her door;
And the snooded daughter,
Through her casement glancing down,
Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.
“Hard to feel the stranger’s scoff,Hard the old friend’s falling off,Hard to learn forgiving;But the Lord His own rewards,And His love with theirs accords,Warm and fresh and living.
“Hard to feel the stranger’s scoff,
Hard the old friend’s falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving;
But the Lord His own rewards,
And His love with theirs accords,
Warm and fresh and living.
“Through this dark and stormy nightFaith beholds a feeble light,Up the blackness streaking;Knowing God’s own time is best,In a patient hope I restFor the full day-breaking!”
“Through this dark and stormy night
Faith beholds a feeble light,
Up the blackness streaking;
Knowing God’s own time is best,
In a patient hope I rest
For the full day-breaking!”
So the Laird of Ury said,Turning slow his horse’s head,Towards the Tolbooth prison,Where through iron gates he heardPoor disciples of the WordPreach of Christ arisen!
So the Laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse’s head,
Towards the Tolbooth prison,
Where through iron gates he heard
Poor disciples of the Word
Preach of Christ arisen!
Not in vain, Confessor old,Unto us the tale is toldOf thy day of trial;Every age on him who straysFrom its broad and beaten waysPours its seven-fold vial.
Not in vain, Confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told
Of thy day of trial;
Every age on him who strays
From its broad and beaten ways
Pours its seven-fold vial.
Happy he whose inward earAngel comfortings can hear,O’er the rabble’s laughter;And while Hatred’s fagots burn,Glimpses through the smoke discernOf the good hereafter.
Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,
O’er the rabble’s laughter;
And while Hatred’s fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.
Knowing this, that never yetShare of Truth was vainly setIn the world’s wide fallow;After hands shall sow the seed,After hands from hill and meadReap the harvests yellow.
Knowing this, that never yet
Share of Truth was vainly set
In the world’s wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead
Reap the harvests yellow.
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,Must the moral pioneerFrom the future borrow;Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,And, on midnight’s sky of rain,Paint the golden morrow!
Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,
Must the moral pioneer
From the future borrow;
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight’s sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!
John Greenleaf Whittier