THE RIVER OF THE WATER OF LIFE.
[PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.]
Oh, glittering river,—doth the willow stoop
O'er thy blue depths? or do the lilies droop,
Watching the shadow of each ivory blossom,
So soon to sink in thy unquiet bosom?—
Does the bright heaven make of thy tide its glass?
Do the dark clouds above thy mirror pass?
Do thy banks echo to the shepherd's song?
Do human feet pass restlessly along?
They do:—upon those mystic waves of thine
Time finds a symbol, and Faith sets its sign.
Thus does Time's flood roll silently away—
Losing the sunshine of its earlier day.
The songs that floated o'er its waves are fled,
Its green leaves fallen, and its flowers dead.
Then Faith steps forth, and promises, "Once more
That stream will rise, but on another shore.
The seraph's harp will be its music there;
Immortal flowers will light the immortal air.
Each human lip that drinks of that bright wave
Drinks to the Cross's triumph o'er the grave."
Life to thy river is a far course given,
But both its birthplace and its home are heaven.
