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!
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