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. THE END PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Transcriber’s Notes Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged. Italics are represented thus _italic_.