THE WATERS.
And native stream again.
He leans against the vessel's side,
And the big burning tear
He cannot cheek, but fain would hide,
Has mingled with the River's tide.
Waters, ye are beautiful,
Take what form ye will;
Leaping in the yeasty billow,
Toying with the pensive willow,
Bearing the mast before the blast,
Or straws upon the rill!
Waters, ye are beautiful,
Howsoe'er ye come,
In sheets that pour with falling roar—
Or moisture on the purple plum.
Ye are free as aught can be,
Singing strains of liberty
In bubbling Spring and booming Sea!
Waters, living Waters,
Strew your pearls upon the sod,
And man needs no other beads
To count in memory of God.
He leans against the vessel's side,
And the big burning tear
He cannot cheek, but fain would hide,
Has mingled with the River's tide.
Waters, ye are beautiful,
Take what form ye will;
Leaping in the yeasty billow,
Toying with the pensive willow,
Bearing the mast before the blast,
Or straws upon the rill!
Waters, ye are beautiful,
Howsoe'er ye come,
In sheets that pour with falling roar—
Or moisture on the purple plum.
Ye are free as aught can be,
Singing strains of liberty
In bubbling Spring and booming Sea!
Waters, living Waters,
Strew your pearls upon the sod,
And man needs no other beads
To count in memory of God.
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