Orson F. Whitney
Again I gazed. It was a scene sublime,
Yet awful in its naked majesty.
A buried world, by water freed from sin,
Rose grandly from the waves, and gladly reared,
O'er all, as at the first, a virgin crest
Of innocence and beauty; barren all
Of living soul, or life inanimate,
Yet rife with promise and fertility.
On Ararat's bleak top the buoyant ark,
The blessed ark of refuge, now finds rest,
With all its precious heritage of souls,
And germs of future growth--bequeathe from time
That was, to time that was to be--a bridge
Of life, the past and future linking, wide
The gulf of waters o'er.
An eager throng
Streams from its portals: Noah, aged sire
And Adam of the new-born world; his sons,
Illustrious triad, peoplers of the waste,
And parents to the nations; each with spouse,
Queen mothers of a race regenerate;
And all the myriad forms of motley life,
For earth's replenishment reserved in store;
As winding rills, rejoicing on their way,
Adown the mount their devious paths pursue.
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