Classic Poem

On the brink of the swirling tide of the street
Where traffic and pleasure and poverty meet,
And never is silent the echo of feet,

There stands an old chapel of blackened stone
With a solemn stateliness all its own.
Ah, what a drama of life it has known!

The ancient grounds are filled with the dead
Who once passed by with hurrying tread
And saw the same sky arch overhead.

The gravestones are dark and mossed with age
Where they mark the rest of maiden and sage —
Of those that have turned Life's final page.

They soundly sleep who are laid away
From the glamor and glare of pitiless day.
Ah, would we were all as wise as they!

In the solemn chapel one hears from afar
The tramp of feet and the wagon's jar
And the whir and rumble of van and car.

Subdued like the roar of a distant sea,
Those earthly sounds come murmurously
To the worshipper there on bended knee.

The old square family-pews are filled
With a throng of spirits rapt and stilled,
As if by the same expectance thrilled.

Suddenly through the twilight — hark!
Rises a melody winged like a lark
And circles around in the throbbing dark.

The voices of angels seem to descend
To meet that bird-like carol and blend.
Would that its rapture might never end!

Out from the shadowy organ-loft,
Now loud and clear, now sweet and soft,
Oft like a hymn, like a choral oft,

Are borne the tones that thrill the heart,
Where the solemn darkness keeps apart
Man and the world; and the warm tears start.

Holy the chapel old and gray
To those that seek its shrine by day;
'Tis a sacred spot where to kneel and pray,

But still more solemn its shrine by night,
When through the windows gleams the light
Of the winter moonbeams cold and white.

Oh, bid each earthly thought be subdued,
Bow down in worshipful attitude,
Let the deep, mysterious awe be renewed!

And then come away from that chapel old
With freshened strength and heart consoled
And courage to meet what the future may hold.