Sketches of Southern Life
I thirst, but earth cannot allay
The fever coursing through my veins,
The healing stream is far away—
It flows through Salem’s lovely plains.
The murmurs of its crystal flow
Break ever o’er this world of strife;
My heart is weary, let me go,
To bathe it in the stream of life;
For many worn and weary hearts
Have bathed in this pure healing stream,
And felt their griefs and cares depart,
E’en like some sad forgotten dream.
“The Word is nigh thee, even in thy heart.”
Say not, within thy weary heart,
Who shall ascend above,
To bring unto thy fever’d lips
The fount of joy and love.
Nor do thou seek to vainly delve
Where death’s pale angels tread,
To hear the murmur of its flow
Around the silent dead.
Within, in thee is one living fount,
Fed from the springs above;
There quench thy thirst till thou shalt bathe
In God’s own sea of love.