WATERLOO

A meeting-house, no church at all,

With stained cathedral glass,

With lofty spire and arching hall,

And terraced lawns of grass:

No organ peals, no chanting choir,

No frescoed walls that men admire

Had this old meeting-house;

But roses wild their petals piled

About its sacred door,

And locust bloom shed rich perfume,

Upon the air, galore,

Around the meeting-house.

It stood upon a limpid stream

My childhood thought divine,

Whose waters pure did ever gleam

Like shimmering shine of wine;

It stood, alas! but stands no more

Upon the bank or pebbly shore

Of sunny Pleasant Run;

Yet in my dreams, it often seems

I see thee, Waterloo,

And see the flash of beaded splash

Upon the waters too,

While crossing Pleasant Run.

Yes, in my dreams, I often hear

The songs they used to sing —

Those solemn lays of reverent fear,

When Christ indeed was King:

Then sinners bowed when prayer was led

By some poor saint the ravens fed

At holy Waterloo.

How free from lust, the simple trust

Of soul that worshipped there;

How free from guile were men erstwhile

Whose creed was song and prayer,

The creed of Waterloo.

The meeting days were always fair —

God smiled on Waterloo!

And mother rode the dark brown mare,

And took the mule colt, too;

For fashion then did not beguile

A mother's heart with worldly wile,

Ah! happy days agone!

Oh! days no more when mothers wore

Sunhood and riding skirt,

And fathers dressed their Sunday best,

A plain check-cotton-shirt,—

Ah! happy days agone!

The sunlight dances on the hills

That shelter Waterloo;

I see the gold of daffodils

That bloom the meadow through —

The hour has come, for meeting's broke,

And now the simple country folk

Are leaving Waterloo!

The horses neigh; away, away!

Away, but not for home;

Grandma to-day will laugh and say,

“My boy, my boy has come.”

Oh, blessed Waterloo!