Classic Poem

Amid these crowded pews must I sit and seem to pray,
All the blessed Sunday-morning while I wish to be away,
While in the fields I long to be or on the hill-tops high,
The air of heaven about me, above, the sacred sky?

Why stay and form my features to a ‘foolish face of’ prayer,
Play postures with the body, while the Spirit is not there?
Not there, but wandering off to woods, or pining to adore
Where mountains rise or where the waves are breaking on the shore.

In a calm sabbatic chamber when I could sit alone,
And feed upon pure thoughts to workday hours unknown,
Amidst a crowd of lookers-on why come, and sham to pray,
While the blessed Sunday-morning wastes uselessly away?

Upon the sacred morning that comes but once a week,
Where'er the Voice addresses me, there let me hear it speak;
Await it in the chamber, abroad to seek it roam,
The Worship of the heavens attend, the Services of home.

Pent-up in crowded pews am I really bound to stay,
And to edify my neighbours make a sad pretence to pray,
And where the Truth indeed speaks, neglect to hear it speak,
On the blessed Sunday morning that comes but once a week?