A Rhyme of Peterboro

In Peterboro lived a man,
     Not very long ago, 
Whose name, if I remember right,
     Was Smith, — not John, nor Joe, 
But Gerrit; 'tis quite possible
     You've heard of him also.

This Gerrit Smith had strange ideas
     He never learnt at school: 
For instance, that a man, though black,
     Was better than a mule; 
And treating folks like cattle, was
     Against the golden rule;

That selling babies from the arms
     Of mothers, was a sin, 
Which soon or late, as sure as fate,
     Its punishment would win; 
Or else the Bible told a lie,
     And wasn't worth a pin.

But stranger things this Gerrit Smith 
     Went preaching day and night:
That love was more than sacraments, 
     That right was more than might,
And evil in the darkness wrought 
     Would be revealed in light.

That not the fashionable garb,
     And not the bit of earth, 
Or small or large, he claimed as his,
     Not learning, nor its dearth, 
Was the true measure of a man,
     But inward, moral worth.

And that, in spite of varying creeds 
     Since first the world began,
Religion meant that every one 
     Should love his fellow man,
And keep unspotted from the world, 
     Yet bless it all he can.

And so he pleaded for the slave, 
     And strove to set him free;
And battled with the wrong that makes 
     The drunkard's misery;
And good to all, and true to all 
     He strove to do and be.

Small reverence had he for forms, 
     And less he thought of creeds
Than that religion undefiled 
     That lives in loving deeds,
And preaches to a sinful world 
     By helping all its needs.

So folks they called him heretic,
     Fanatic, infidel, 
And various other pretty names,
     Including "child of hell;" 
But what they meant by compliments
     Like these, I cannot tell.

I only know, that in his home
     The very atmosphere 
Was fragrant with the soul of love
     That casteth out all fear, 
As if the heaven had stooped to earth,
     Or earth to heaven was near.

I only know, that from his hand 
     He scattered more than gold
Among the wretched and the poor 
     In blessings manifold;
Nor half his helpful ministry 
     In words can e'er be told.