THE pure and blessed stream is open now,
The fountain is set free;
Here may'st thou stoop and lave thy fevered brow,—
Here bow the weary knee.

Lo! by this well thou may'st repair thy loss
Of strength, and safely drink;
For, hallowing its pure waters, stands the cross,
Upon its quiet brink.

And fairest fruitage, clustering on the bough
That overhangs the spring,
Shall be thy food, the branches bending low
The plenteous stores to bring

Unto thine hand. They call the waters Faith;
Oh in their virtues trust,
And thou shalt live by them—the promise saith,
That they are for the just.

And the fair fruits—they are the words of Love,
Proceeding straight from heaven;
The holy manna, dropping from above,
To feed the hungry given.

Follow the windings of that holy stream,
Although its course is traced
Through deserts scorched by Passion's lightning gleam,
Through Sorrow's desolate waste:

And thou shalt find it widen in its course,
And merge, all free from strife,
With gentle majesty, and quiet force,
Into the streams of life.