On yonder hill, with oak and hickory crowned,
What sight is that which draws, from far and near,
The thronging people up the dusty roads,
And through each field where'er a by-path leads?
See, where the red and new-arisen sun
Points his bright finger through the upland grove,
Flushing the white tents to a rosy hue!
And hark, the call of the resounding horn,
Which echo, from yon hill, with slumberous shell
Blows softly back! Are these the tents of war,
By some proud general pitched, where bayonets gleam,
And sentinels walk, and banners to the drum
Dance in mid air, and flap their sanguine folds?
It is the camp of that increasing strife
Waged 'gainst a world of sin; it is a host
Come out upon the glorious side of Truth,
To fight, to suffer, and, with love, to conquer!
With songs triumphal under flags of peace,
Spread like the wings of swans upon the wind.
They hold their siege against the walls of Wrong,
And will not rest till on the highest tower
Which crowns his ramparts that white banner floats.
There Wesley's spirit hovers, and, with voice
Clear as a bugle winding, mid the hills.
The soul of Whitfield soars. There, with long beard
Sweeping his patriarchal breast, arrives
The apostle-pilgrim, punctual to the hour—
Lorenzo, the eccentric—and at once
Mounts the rough desk, and lifts his startling voice,
While eager thousands crowd the space to look;
And seeing, hear; and every neighbouring tree
Is populous with faces forward bent.
Here, scoffer, smooth the scorn from off thy lip;
Nor you, nor I, though holding faith diverse,
May sit in judgment and condemn the scene.
Though we approve not, wiser heads than ours
Have bowed and worshipped at the woodland altar,
And pressed the temporary couch at night
Within the wavy tent, and often found
The peace which they had sought elsewhere in vain
Let us not waste the vigour of our minds
In acrimonious quarrel over creeds.
Not ours the business of dispute; but ours,
Ye gentle hearts for whom I chiefly sing,
The pleasing duty to find good in all;
And, finding, recognize and own in each
A brotherhood, no difference of faith
May set ajar. Nor Brahmin, Turk, nor Jew,
Nor he who kneels to Deity in stones—
The savage instinct searching for its God—
Each seeking truth the nearest way he knows,
Shall wake in me one cold condemning word—
While Charity, the sweetest child of Heaven,
Hides her bright face, and weeps behind her wings—
But love instead. And we will interchange
Whatever thought may cheer each other on;
For all are pilgrims on one darksome road:
One may have store of water and no bread;
The other bread, and faint with sultry thirst:
One plenteous oil, another but dry wick.
Hence is our duty plain; and simple need,
Left to itself, would teach us oft aright,
Which prejudiced by doctrines of a sect,
Would leave us hungry, thirsty, or at night
Give but a lightless lantern. Let who will
Quarrel o'er outward forms: so quarrelled they
Who gambled for the garments of our Lord.
And heard not the deep agony of soul
Of Him who cast all mantles by as vain,
And died for simple truth.