Classic Poem

Listen to the tawny thief
Hid behind the waxen leaf,
Growling at his fairy host,
Bidding her with angry boast
Fill his cup with wine distilled
From the dew the dawn has spilled:
Stored away in golden casks
Is the precious draught he asks.

Who,—who makes this mimic din
In this mimic meadow inn,
Sings in such a drowsy note,
Wears a golden-belted coat,
Loiters in the dainty room
Of this tavern of perfume,
Dares to linger at the cup
Till the yellow sun is up?

It is Bacchus come again
To the busy haunts of men;
Garlanded and gayly dressed,
Bands of gold about his breast;
Straying from his paradise
Having pinions, angel-wise,—
'T is the honey-bee, who goes
Reveling within a rose!

W E build on Christ, our Corner-stone,
That Rock of Ages we adore;
Glory shall crown His name alone,
Rock of our faith, eternal, sure!

Each stone we lay shall speak His praise;
And spire and pinnacle shall rise
In solemn grandeur, holy grace,—
A grateful tribute to the skies.

In faith, this corner-stone we lay;
In hope, the house of God we rear.
Here God will answer when we pray;
Jehovah shall be worshipped here.

And when in silent dust we sleep,
This sacred stone shall still record
That we and ours the covenant keep,
That we and ours confess the Lord.