Amid the tents upon the highest spot, The preachers’ stand in humble form appears, And by its side the horn with mellow note, To give the signal meet for praise and prayer. There all conditions come with hearts of love, Married and single, sons and daughters fair, The emigrants from every templed land; The Saxon, in his pride of high descent, The Gaul, with spirit-harp of finer strings, The Pict, ne’er weaned from his romantic hills, Where o’er the heather rolls the Highland tongue, The Swiss, whose home is where his cottage smiles, The light Italian, gayest of the gay, And the coarse Hollander, who loves the marsh, Nor deems a heaven a home without a ditch— The river seaman of the mighty west, Rude in their speech, but honest as they’re rude, The man of cities, and the pioneer, Whose axe first let the sunlight to the woods, When nature in her lonely beauty slept On the wide prairie and the sylvan hill— The beaver-trapper, from the far-off stream; The bison-hunter, from the saline lick; And the wild Indian, in his forest dress, All gather from their journeyings to keep, In humble guise, a week of holier time. And now the horn has echoed wide and shrill, And the great congregation waits for prayer. One takes the stand—a man not taught by schools— In habit plain, with hands embrown’d by toil; Blunt in his speech, yet reverent withall. Now, scarcely understood, he lifts his voice In praise to God. Then as his feelings catch The inspiration of that hallowed hour, Soars to a pitch of eloquence sublime, While the deep woods are vocal with his prayer. His words, like rain upon the thirsty ground, Fall on the ear of that great multitude. Now he describes a Savior’s matchless love— His high estate, his exile from the throne, His mocking trial, and his felon death; The noonday sun in darkness veils its face, And earthquake voices fill the trembling air, While the old dead in shrouds, through Salem’s streets, Go forth a ghostly company again, Singing the song of Moses and the Lamb, And making the proud Temple’s arches ring, With the glad praises of Redeeming Love. ’Tis done! the mighty plan is carried out— The last great Sacrifice for sin is o’er; Then from the tomb he rolls the stone away, And shows a risen Savior and a God! The different hearers testify his power In different ways. The truth, like a sharp sword, Has cleaved its path. The flinty heart is crushed; And the great deep of sin is broken up. The old transgressors tremble by the stand— The young in sin repent to sin no more. A thousand voices join in one wild prayer, And shrieks, and groans, and shouts of joy arise, And Heaven keeps Sabbath o’er the autumn woods.