THE COUNTRY CHURCH.
IT was an humble temple; and it stood In the enclosure of a quiet wood. The forest trees o'ershadow'd all the place, And mountains round it, added a rude grace, To charm the eye, and bid the thoughts arise Amid their towering summits, to the skies. The valley lay below, half hid from view By clustering bushes on its bank that grew; And in its depths a winding streamlet stray'd Of crystal water, murmuring through the glade — An emblem of that living water, given To quench the thirst of spirits bound for heaven.
Sweet was the rural scene of deep repose, And bright the sun that o'er the Sabbath rose, When we, as strangers, sought that house of prayer, And join'd the few who met to worship there. We cross'd the open door-way, sure to meet A welcome entrance and a willing seat, Amid the scant and scatter'd flock that came Their own familiar places there to claim. Free access to that dome was none denied; Nor outward show of fashion or of pride, Check'd the devotion of the solemn hour, Or took from Truth its deep, momentous power.
No studied eloquence was there display'd, Nor poetry of language lent its aid,