The Waterfall

"What is the Church, and what am I?
A world, to one poor sandy grain,
A waste of sea and sky
To one frail drop of rain.

"What boots one feeble infant tone,
To the full choir denied or given,
Where millions round the Throne
Are chanting, morn and even?"

Nay, the kind Watchers hearkening there
Distinguish in the deep of song
Each little wave, each air
Upon the faltering tongue.

Each half note in the great Amen,
Even by the utterer's self unheard,
They store: O fail not then
To bring thy lowly word:

Spare not to swell the bold acclaim:
So in the future battle-shout,
When at the Saviour's Name
The Church shall call thee out,

No doubtful sound thy trump shall pour.
Remember, when in earlier days
Thou toil'dst upon the floor
Palace or tower to raise,

No mimic stone but found a place,
And glorious to the builder shone
The pile: then how should Grace
One living gem disown,

One pearly mote, one diamond small,
One sparkle of th' unearthly light? —
Go where the waters fall
Sheer from the mountain's height;

Mark how, a thousand streams in one,
One in a thousand, on they fare,
Now flashing to the sun,
Now still as beast in lair.

Now round the rock, now mounting o'er,
In lawless dance they win their way,
Still seeming more and more
To swell as we survey.

They win their way, and find their rest
Together in their ocean home.
From East and weary West,
From North and South they come.

They rush and roar, they whirl and leap,
Not wilder drives the wintry storm:
Yet a strong law they keep,
Strange powers their course inform.

Even so the mighty sky-born Stream: —
Its living waters from above
All marr'd and broken seem,
No union and no love.

Yet in dim caves they haply blend,
In dreams of mortals unespied:
One is their awful End,
One their unfailing Guide.

We that with eye too daring seek
To scan their course, all giddy turn: —
Not so the floweret meek,
Harebell or nodding fern:

They from the rocky wall's steep side
Lean without fear, and drink the spray;
The torrent's foaming pride
But keeps them green and gay.

And Christ hath lowly hearts, that rest
Amid fallen Salem's rush and strife:
The pure, peace-loving breast
Even here can find her life.

What though in harsh and angry note
The broken flood chafe high? they muse
On mists that lightly float,
On heaven-descending dews,

On virgin snows, the feeders pure
Of the bright river's mountain springs: —
And still their prayers endure,
And Hope sweet answer brings.

If of the Living Cloud they be
Baptismal drops, and onward press
Toward the Living Sea
By deeds of holiness,

Then to the Living Waters still
(O joy with trembling!) they pertain,
Joined by some hidden rill,
Low in Earth's darkest vein.

Scorn not one drop: of drops the shower
Is made, of showers the waterfall:
Of children's souls the Power
Doomed to be Queen o'er all.