Classic Poem

God's lowly temple! place of many prayers!
Gray is thy roof, and crumbling are thy walls;
And over old green graves thy shadow falls,
To bless the spot where end all human cares!

The sight of thee brings gladness to my heart;
And while beneath thy humble roof I stand,
I seem to grasp an old familiar hand,
And hear a voice that bids my spirit start.

Long years ago, in childhood's careless hour,
Thou wast to me e'en like a grandsire's knee—
From storms a shelter thou wast made to be—
I bound my brow with ivy from thy tower.

The humble-hearted, and the meek and pure
Have, by the holy worship of long years,
Made thee a hallowed place; and many tears,
Shed in repentance deep, have blessed thy floor.

Like some all-loving good man's feeling heart,
Thy portal hath been open unto all;
A treasure-house, where men, or great or small,
May bring their purest, holiest thoughts, thou art!

Church of the village! God doth not despise
The torrent's voice in mountain valleys dim,
Nor yet the blackbird's summer morning hymn;
And H E will hear the prayers from thee that rise.

The father loves thee, for his son is laid
Among thy graves; the mother loves thee too,
For 'neath thy roof, by love time-tried and true,
Her quiet heart long since was happy made.

The wanderer in a far and foreign land,
When death's last sickness o'er him revels free,
Turns his heart homewards, ever unto thee,
And those who, weekly, 'neath thy roof-tree stand.

Lowly thou art; but yet, when time is set,
Will He who loves what wicked men despise—
Who hears the orphan's voice, that up doth rise
In deep sincerity—not thee forget!

Lone temple! did men know it—unto thee
Would pilgrims come, more than to battle plains;
For thou hast lightened human woes and pains,
And taught men's souls the truth that makes them free!

The distant sound of thy sweet Sabbath bell
O'er meadows green no more shall come to me,
Sitting beneath the lonely forest tree—
Church of my native village! fare-thee-well!