Verse > Anthologies > Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. > Yale Book of American Verse
Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse.  1912.
John Greenleaf Whittier. 1807–1892
73. Barclay of Ury
UP the 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,         5
    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, late  10
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 
    Cursed him as he passed her. 
Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 
    Came he slowly riding;  15
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,  20
    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 crowd  25
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;  30
Who with ready weapon bare, 
Fronting to the troopers there, 
    Cried aloud: "God save us, 
Call ye coward him who stood 
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood,  35
    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,  40
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."  45
Marvelled much that henchman bold, 
That his laird, so stout of old, 
    Now so meekly pleaded. 
"Wo 's the day!" he sadly said, 
With a slowly-shaking head,  50
    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,  55
As we charged on Tilly's line, 
    And his Walloon lancers, 
Smiting through their midst we 'll teach 
Civil look and decent speech 
    To these boyish prancers!"  60
"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  65
    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,  70
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,  75
Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
Riding out from Aberdeen, 
    With bared heads to meet me. 
"When each good wife, o'er and o'er, 
Blessed me as I passed her door;  80
    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,  85
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.  90
"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  95
    For the full day-breaking!" 
So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 
    Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
Where, through iron grates, he heard 100
Poor disciples of the Word 
    Preach of Christ arisen! 
Not in vain, Confessor old, 
Unto us the tale is told 
    Of thy day of trial; 105
Every age on him who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways 
    Pours its sevenfold vial. 
Happy he whose inward ear 
Angels' comfortings can hear, 110
    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 yet 115
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. 120
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, 125
    Paint the golden morrow! 

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