Classic Poem

Christ leaves to-day the little gazing crowd
Upon the Mount, as straight to Heaven He fares;
O! let us follow Him with hymns and prayers
Up to the skirts of that receiving cloud;
But lo! the preacher hath no hope, no trust,
Nor can he, 'mid our coming Whitsun songs,
Make common cause with all those fiery tongues
That hail the glories of the Pentecost;
But, if he ever thought it joy to meet
The faithful—if that memory thrills him yet—
Full surely must he feel some fond regret,
At parting with a creed so grand and sweet;
A grief, as when forsaken Olivet
Roll'd sadly from beneath the Saviour's feet.