C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
George Alfred Townsend (1841–1914)
The Circuit Preacher
H
He sees the brethren’s prayerful eyes o’er all the conference;
He hears the bishop slowly call the long “appointment” rolls,
Where in his vineyard God would place these gatherers of souls.
He wonders if some city “charge” may not for him have writ?
Certes! could they his sermon hear on Paul and Luke awreck,
Then had his talent ne’er been hid on Annomessix Neck!
Two years of banishment they read far down the Chesapeake!
Though Brother Bates, less eloquent, by Wilmington is wooed,
The Lord that counts the sparrow’s fall shall feed his little brood.
He raised three hundred dollars there, besides the marriage fees.
What! tears from us who preached the word these thirty years or so—
Two years on barren Chincoteague, and two in Tuckahoe?
The Presbyterians lost their house; the Baptists lost their zeal.
The parsonage is clean and dry; the town has friendly folk,—
Not half so dull as Murderkill, nor proud like Pocomoke.
We see our ague-crippled boys pine on the Eastern shore,
While we, thy stewards, journey out our dedicated years
Midst foresters of Nanticoke or heathen of Tangiers!
To sow upon some better ground my most select discourse:
At Sassafras or Smyrna preach my argument on ‘Drink,’
My series on the Pentateuch at Appoquinimink.
It is these drooping little ones that sometimes wring my heart,
And cheat me with the vain conceit the cleverness is mine
To fill the churches of the Elk, and pass the Brandywine.
Proud of my order as a knight,—the shouting Methodists,—
I made the pine woods ring with hymns, with prayer the night-winds shook,
And preached from Assawaman Light far north as Bombay Hook.
The eldest trustees gave me praise, the fairest sisters smiles;
Still I recall how Elder Smith of Worten Heights averred
My Apostolic Parallels the best he ever heard.
At midnight our revival hymns rolled o’er the sobbing bay;
Three Sabbath sermons, every week, should tire a man of brass—
And still our fervent membership must have their extra class!
I terrified Immersionists, and scourged the Millerite;
But larger, tenderer charities such vain debates supplant,
When the dear wife, saved by my zeal, loved the Itinerant.
A singing Miriam, alway, in God’s poor wilderness.
The wretched at her footstep smiled, the frivolous were still:
A bright path marked her pilgrimage, from Blackbird to Snowhill.
Like the Madonna and her babe they filled the ‘Amen side’:
Crouched at my feet in the old gig, my boy, so fair and frank,
Naswongo’s darkest marshes cheered, and sluices of Choptank.
The townfolk marveled, when we moved, at such a caravan!
I wonder not my lads grew wild, when, bright, without the door
Spread the ripe, luring, wanton world—and we, within, so poor!
Mocking the lean flanks of my mare, my boy’s patched roundabout,
And saying: ‘Have these starveling boors, thy congregation, souls,
That on their dull heads Heaven and thou pour forth such living coals?”
Beyond our barren Maryland God’s folks were wise and rich;
Where climbing spires and easy pews showed how the preacher thrived,
And all old brethren paid their rents, and many young ones wived!
From Bishopshead with fancy’s sails I crossed the Chesapeake;
In velvet pulpits of the North said my best sermons o’er—
And that on Paul to Patmos driven, drew tears in Baltimore.
(I would my sermon on St. Paul the bishop heard himself!)
But this crushed wife—these boys—these hairs! they cut me to the core;—
Is it not hard, year after year, to ride the Eastern Shore?
(That is a downright fair discourse on Patmos and St. Paul!)
So, Brother Riggs, once more my voice shall ring in the old lists.
Cheer up, sick heart, who would not die among these Methodists?”