“My nag was gray, my gig was new; fast went the sandy miles;
    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.

    “All winter long I rode the snows, rejoicing on my way;
    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!

    “Aggressive with the zeal of youth, in many a warm requite
    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.

    “No cooing dove of storms afeard, she shared my life’s distress,
    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.

    “A new face in the parsonage, at church a double pride!—­
    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.

    “My cloth drew close; too fruitful love my fruitless life outran;
    The townfolk marvelled, 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!

    “For, down the silent cypress aisles came shapes even me to scout,
    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?

    “Then prayer brought hopes, half secular, like seers by Endor’s witch: 
    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!

    “I saw the ships Henlopen pass with chaplains fat and sleek;
    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.

    “Well! well! my brethren, it is true we should not preach for pelf—­
    (I would my sermon on Saint 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?

    “Next year?  Yes, yes, I thank you much!  Then my reward may fall! 
    (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?”