Over the roofs of the pioneers
Gathers the moss of a hundred years;
On man and his works has passed the
change

Which needs must be in a century's range.

The land lies open and warm in the sun, Anvils clamor and mill-wheels run, Flocks on the hillsides, herds on the plain,

The wilderness gladdened with fruit and grain!

But the living faith of the settlers old
A dead profession their children hold;
To the lust of office and greed of trade
A stepping-stone is the altar made.
The Church, to place and power the
door,

But the Lord and his love are the light alone!

And watching the sweet, still countenance Of the wife of his bosom rapt in trance, Had he not treasured each broken word Of the mystical wonder seen and heard; And loved the beautiful dreamer more That thus to the desert of earth she bore Clusters of Eschol from Canaan's shore?

As the barley-winnower, holding with pain

Aloft in waiting his chaff and grain,
Joyfully welcomes the far-off breeze
Sounding the pine-tree's slender keys,
So he who had waited long to hear
The sound of the Spirit drawing near,
Like that which the son of Iddo heard
When the feet of angels the myrtles
stirred,

Felt the answer of prayer, at last,
As over his church the afflatus passed,
Breaking its sleep as breezes break
To sun-bright ripples a stagnant lake.

At first a tremor of silent fear,
The creep of the flesh at danger near,
A vague foreboding and discontent,
Over the hearts of the people went.
All nature warned in sounds and signs:
The wind in the tops of the forest pines
In the name of the Highest called to
prayer,

As the muezzin calls from the minaret stair.

Through ceiléd chambers of secret sin Sudden and strong the light shone in ; A guilty sense of his neighbor's needs Startled the man of title-deeds;

The trembling hand of the worldling shook

The dust of years from the Holy Book; And the psalms of David, forgotten long, Took the place of the scoffer's song.

The impulse spread like the outward

course

Of waters moved by a central force :
The tide of spiritual life rolled down
From inland mountains to seaboard
town.

Prepared and ready the altar stands Waiting the prophet's outstretched hands

And prayer availing, to downward call The fiery answer in view of all.

251

Hearts are like wax in the furnace, who Shall mould, and shape, and cast them anew?

Lo! by the Merrimack WHITEFIELD stands

In the temple that never was made by hands,

Curtains of azure, and crystal wall,
And dome of the sunshine over all!
A homeless pilgrim, with dubious name
Blown about on the winds of fame ;
Now as an angel of blessing classed,
And now as a mad enthusiast.
Called in his youth to sound and gauge
The moral lapse of his race and age,
And, sharp as truth, the contrast draw
Of human frailty and perfect law;
Possessed by the one dread thought that
lent

Its goad to his fiery temperament,
Up and down the world he went,
A John the Baptist crying, -Repent!