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

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