And since no draught we ’ve tasted,
Its weary journey through,
As we so far have hasted,
Like that our father drew;
I feel, as at a mountain,
I cannot pass nor climb,
Till from that distant fountain
I drink, as in my prime.
My spirit’s longing, thirsting,
No waters else can quell;
My heart seems near to bursting
To reach that good old well.
Though all be changed around it,
And though so changed are we,
Just where our father found it,
That pure well spring will be.
In earth, when deeply going,
He reached and smote the rock;
He set its fount to flowing—
It opened at his knock.
The way, he smoothed and stoned it,
A close, round, shadowy cell;
Whoever since has owned it,
It is our father’s well!
His prattling son and daughter,
With each an infant’s cup,
We waited for the water,
His steady hand drew up.
When we had paused and listened,
Till down the bucket dashed,
O how it, rising, glistened,
And to the sunlight flashed!
And since that moment, never
Has that cool deep been dry;
Its fount is living ever,
While man and seasons die.
Around its mouth is growing
The moss of many a year;
But from its heart is flowing
The water sweet and clear.