From his high renown, Saw his unlettered sire Still by the old log fire, Saw the unpolished dame-- And the dunghill from which he came.
Ah, ye who judge the dead By the outward lives they led, And not by the hidden worth Which none but God can see; Ye who would spurn the earth That covers such as he; Would ye but bare your hearts, Cease to play borrowed parts, And come down from your self-built throne: How few from their house of glass, As the gibbering secrets pass, Would dare to fling, whether serf or king, The first accusing stone!
Peace, peace to his harmless dust! Since Colin is gone; We can but hope and trust; Man judgeth, but God is just; Poor Colin is gone! Had he faults? His heart was true, And warm as the summer's sun. Had he failings? Ay, but few; 'Twas an honest race he run. Let him rest in the poor man's grave, Ye who grant him no higher goal; There may be a curse on the hands that gave, But not on his simple soul!
"Truth lights our minds as sunrise lights the world. The heart that shuts out truth, excludes the light That wakes the love of beauty in the soul; And being foe to these, despises God, The sole Dispenser of the gracious bliss That brings us nearer the celestial gate. They who might feed on rose-leaves of the True, And grow in loveliness of heart and soul, Catch at Deception's airy gossamers, As children clutch at stars. To some, the world Is a bleak desert, parched with blinding sand, With here and there a mirage, fair to view, But insubstantial as the visions born Of Folly and Despair. Could we but know How nigh we are to the true light of heaven; In what a world of love we live and breathe; On what a tide of truth our souls are borne! Yet we're but bubbles in the whirl of life, Mere flecks upon its ever-restless sea, Meteors in its ever-changing sky. Eternity alone is worth the thought That we expend upon the passing hour, Chasing the gaudy butterflies that lure Our footsteps from the path that leads us home. We will not see the beacon on the rock; The prompter is unheeded; and the spark Of the true spirit quenched in utter night, As we rush headlong, wrecked on Error's shoals. Some hearts will never open; all their wards
Have grown so rusty, that the golden key Of Love Divine must fail to move the bolt That Self has drawn to keep God's angels out."