Classic Poem

THE Monarch of Waters I see,
With his winding wide expanse;
His rich wooded shores and islands
Are changing at every glance.
To his current so deep and strong,
Drawn in by a power controlling,
A thousand rivers are borne along,
Down to old ocean rolling.

His banks with forests are lined,
For so noble a river meet;
The cotton-tree towering proudly,
With the willow-wood soft at his feet.
There are islands of verdure bright,
There are deep shady dingles between,
With a line of sharp, sun-flashing, silvery light,
Drawn under the dark cool green.

The riches of northern climes
The rise of his waters obey;
They are borne down his buoyant channel,
To the warm sunny South far away.
And back from the South to the North,
See the deep-freighted vessels ascending;
The wealth of the uttermost ends of the earth,
By the changes of commerce blending.

Not clear as the crystal pure,
Like the brooks of a rough mountain-land,
The flood as it pours through the valley
Is sullied by mire and sand.
And whirlpools and eddies seem,
With their ripples in endless motion,
To wrinkle the face of the dark turbid stream,
Till they melt in the swell of the ocean.

Yet the green-tufted fringe on its banks
Is reversed by the stream as it flows;
The white fleecy clouds o'er its bosom
Come floating in mirror'd repose.
Now 'tis all in a blaze from the west! —
A river of red gold resembling;
While at night the stars blink o'er its broad brown breast,
With the silvery moonlight blending.

Like thee is the Church of God ;
And like to thy proud current free,
With its waters forever changing,
Yet still rolling on to the sea:
So, the Church is a glorious stream,
With a noble field before her;
Though changing forever, forever the same,
As age upon age rolls o'er her.
On either-hand shore, well fed
By the tide as it rolls between,
The forests, the river-side clothing,
Rejoice in perennial green.
There are coverts sequestered in shade,
For the children of grief and mourning,
Where the tear may fall and the prayer be said,
While the sinner to God is turning.

How humble the source of the Church!
Then swelling from day to day,
Apostles, and Prophets, and Martyrs,
And Fathers — a noble array!
Victorious was their fight,
Heroic their solemn story;
They perished not when their souls took flight,
To their home in the mansions of glory.

And when, in these evil times,
Disturbance and doubt arise,
Then back to those ages hoary
We turn our inquiring eyes.
'Tis a mine of the finest ore,
A treasure never ending,
From the hands of the Saints who have gone before,
Down to our own descending.

And the Church is not wholly pure,
For often, with dangerous force,
The whirlpools and eddies of passion
Distemper her onward course.
Since the Church did first begin,
Her earthly sons and daughters
With infirmity, vanity, lust and sin,
Have sullied her heavenly waters.

Yet shadowy lights from above
Flit over her troubled breast;
And heavenly hosts are guarding
The home of our earthly rest,
The star of our Faith rides bright
O'er the waves of the turbid river,
And the stream of the Church is a-blaze with the light
Of a Sun that shall shine forever.

As of old, when the tongues of fire, —
Bright emblem for all mankind! —
On the heads of the Twelve descended,
With the sound of a rushing wind:
So, drawn by the power of C HRIST ,
From the darkness in which they slumbered,
From thousands of kingdoms the bands of the blest
In the fold of the Church are numbered.

She lingereth not in her course,
Her current bears onward still;
It passes by woodland and island,
Nor sleeps under hamlet or hill:
It rolls by its tempting shores
With a rapid and soundless motion,
Till it garners its myriad-mingled stores
At home, in Eternity's ocean!
There, a sea of Saints redeemed,
Gathered from every zone,
Triumphant, glorious army,
Stands banded around the Throne.
We all shall be there — yes, all!
For C HRIST hath gone before us:
And our billowy wings shall rise and fall,
As we join the loud angel-chorus.