Close beside the crystal waters of Jacob's far-famed well,
Whose dewy coolness gratefully upon the parched air fell,
Reflecting back the bright hot heavens within its waveless
breast,
Jesus, foot-sore and weary, had sat Him down to rest.

Alone was He--His followers had gone to Sichar near,
Whose roofs and spires rose sharply against the heavens clear,
For food which Nature craveth, whate'er each hope or care,
And which, though Lord of Nature, He disdained not to share.

While thus He calmly waited, came a woman to the well,
With water vase poised gracefully, and step that lightly fell,
One of Samaria's daughters, most fair, alas! but frail,
Her dark locks bound with flowers instead of modest, shelt'ring
veil.

No thought of scornful anger within _His_ bosom burned,
Nor, with abhorrent gesture, His face from her He turned;
But as His gaze of purity dwelt on her, searching, meek,
Her bright eyes fell, and blushes hot burned on her brow and
cheek.

He told her with a gentleness, by God-like pity nursed,
Of wond'rous living fountains at which to slake her thirst;
That those whose lips, thrice blessed, should a draught from them
obtain,
Despite earth's toils and troubles, would ne'er know thirst
again.