Page 63 - Poetry-Romance

Poor man! I recollect he spoke,
One large prayer-meeting night,
And told how smallish we all look
In Heaven’s majestic sight;
He said, Not worthy had he been—
By conscience e’er abhorred—
To be a door-keeper within
The temple of the Lord
And that his place for evermore,
Undoubtedly and clear,
Was mainly back behind the door—
Poor humble Brother Spear!

And then I rose, and made a speech,
Brimful of soul-distress,
And told them how words could not reach
My own unworthiness;
How orphanage I tried to soothe,
And cheerless widowerhood;
But in the Lord’s great house, in truth,
I too felt far from good,
And that my trembling heart and mind
Compelled it to appear
That my place henceforth was behind
The door, with Brother Spear.

Poor man! he ne’er again, they say,
Was heard to strongly speak;
He took down ill that very day,
And died within a week.
But one prayer oft they heard him give—
That when his days were o’er,
I still upon this earth might live
A thousand years or more.
As his betrothed I figure now
And shed the frequent tear;
And all his relatives will vow
I’m true to Brother Spear.

—Will Carleton (Harper’s Monthly, 1889)

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