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Art and Fashion

With other sketches, songs and poems. By Charles Swain
  
  

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THE FORTRESS.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


175

THE FORTRESS.

What fortress spans this rock forlorn?
What sea mourns at its feet?
Its walls “might laugh a siege to scorn,”
Its tide engulph a fleet!
Yet rusted swing its iron gates;
Scant guard the warder keeps;
One at the portal stands and waits,—
One stands, and waits, and weeps.
The banner lifts its batter'd crest
Above the shipless tide;
The harbour seems in little quest,
Nor pilot here, nor guide.
Ho! tell me who this fortress claims?
Who claims? the watcher saith—
One who with joy each angel names,
The heir of all is Faith!

176

And 'tis the banner of our God
That floats upon the morn;
This is the Rock that all have trod
Who've sprung, through Faith, new born.
Though few the feet that enter in,
Yet shall a day appear,
When God shall strike the gates of sin,
And all shall enter here.