III—A RHYMED ADDRESS TO ALL RENEGADE CAMPBELLITES, EXHORTING THEM TO RETURN

I O prodigal son, O recreant daughter, When broken by the death of a child You called for the greybeard Campbellite elder, Who spoke as of old in the wild. His voice held echoes of the deep woods of Kentucky. He towered in apostolic state, While the portrait of Campbell emerged from the dark: That genius beautiful and great. And millennial trumpets poised, half lifted, Millennial trumpets that wait. II Like the woods of old Kentucky The memories of childhood Arch up to where gold chariot wheels go ringing, To where the precious airs are terraces and roadways For witnesses to God, forever singing. Like Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, the memories of childhood Go in and in forever underground To river and fountain of whispering and mystery And many a haunted hall without a sound. To Indian hoards and carvings and graveyards unexplored. To pits so deep a torch turns to a star Whirling ’round and going down to the deepest rocks of earth, To the fiery roots of forests brave and far. III As I built cob-houses with small cousins on the floor: (The talk was not meant for me). Daguerreotypes shone. The back log sizzled And my grandmother traced the family tree. Then she swept to the proverbs of Campbell again. And we glanced at the portrait of that most benign of men Looking down through the evening gleam With a bit of Andrew Jackson’s air, More of Henry Clay And the statesmen of Thomas Jefferson’s day: With the face of age, And the flush of youth, And that air of going on, forever free. For once upon a time ... Long, long ago ... In the holy forest land There was a jolly pre-millennial band, When that text-armed apostle, Alexander Campbell Held deathless debate with the wicked “infi-del.” The clearing was a picnic ground. Squirrels were barking. The seventeen year locust charged by. Wild turkeys perched on high. And millions of wild pigeons Broke the limbs of trees, Then shut out the sun, as they swept on their way. But ah, the wilder dove of God flew down To bring a secret glory, and to stay, With the proud hunter-trappers, patriarchs that came To break bread together and to pray And oh the music of each living throbbing thing When Campbell arose, A pillar of fire, The great high priest of the Spring. He stepped from out the Brush Run Meeting House To make the big woods his cathedrals, The river his baptismal font, The rolling clouds his bells, The storming skies his waterfalls, His pastures and his wells. Despite all sternness in his word Richer grew the rushing blood Within our fathers’ coldest thought. Imagination at the flood Made flowery all they heard. The deep communion cup Of the whole South lifted up. Who were the witnesses, the great cloud of witnesses With which he was compassed around? The heroes of faith from the days of Abraham Stood on that blue-grass ground— While the battle-ax of thought Hewed to the bone That the utmost generation Till the world was set right Might have an America their own. For religion Dionysian Was far from Campbell’s doctrine. He preached with faultless logic An American Millennium: The social order Of a realist and farmer With every neighbor Within stone wall and border. And the tongues of flame came down Almost in spite of him. And now all but that Pentecost is dim. IV I walk the forest by the Daniel Boone trail. By guide posts quaint. And the blazes are faint In the rough old bark Of silver poplars And elms once slim, Now monoliths tall. I walk the aisle, The cathedral hall That is haunted still With chariots dim, Whispering still With debate and call. I come to you from Campbell. Turn again, prodigal Haunted by his name! Artist, singer, builder, The forest’s son or daughter! You, the blasphemer Will yet know repentance, And Campbell old and grey Will lead you to the dream-side Of a pennyroyal river. While your proud heart is shaken Your confession will be taken And your sins baptized away. You, statesman-philosopher, Sage with high conceit Who speak of revolutions, in long words, And guide the little world as best you may: I come to you from Campbell And say he rides your way And will wait with you the coming of his day. His horse still threads the forest, Though the storm be roaring down.... Campbell enters now your log-house door. Indeed you make him welcome, after many years, While the children build cob-houses on the floor. Let a thousand prophets have their due. Let each have his boat in the sky. But you were born for his secular millennium With the old Kentucky forest blooming like Heaven, And the red birds flying high.