The South Porch.
THE CHURCH IN FEAR.
Eden was in her morning beauty rife,
Opening her bosom, like some vernal flower,
When crept the deadly serpent from his bower
To poison all the founts of life.
Men smil'd at one that wrought a house of wood,—
Married and gave in marriage,—built and made
Foundations; when the sky was overlaid,
And open'd with the rushing flood.
Sodom in pamper'd pride was revelling,
And Jordan in the sunshine basking nigh,—
The thunder-arm was hid in the blue sky,
'Neath flowers the sulphurous whirlwind's wing.
Not when king David cried, My son, My son!
But when before him, on his throne reclin'd,
Wav'd number'd hosts, like trees before the wind,—
Look forth, the plague is now begun!
Not when sick Hezekiah hid his brow,
But when he shew'd his treasur'd pride,
'Twas then the Angel took the veil aside,—
Lo, Babylon, and chains, and woe!
The Babylonian 'mid the heavenly stars
Walk'd in his glory;—when the sky was riven,
Fell, like the thunderbolt, the voice from Heaven,
And the dark cloud his vision mars.
The Eastern Queen of cities sat in state,
Throwing unwonted lustre on night's hall;—
Behold, the fiery hand is on the wall,
The Mede is knocking at the gate.
When Tyre with jewels deck'd her sea-born nest,
Sitting in beauty 'mid her watery flock,
The nations heard her cry:—upon the rock
The lonely sea-bird sits to rest.
Not when Christ's flock were wandering, earth-disown'd,
But when on her seven hills, attir'd in gold,
Sat Babylon 'mid sorceries manifold,—
'Twas then the poison'd cup went round.
At the vex'd Church's feet, oppress'd and wrong'd,
When Constantine laid down the imperial pride,
Her gate once narrow she unfolded wide,
And the mix'd world her temple throng'd.
When liberty her triumph loudest rais'd,
And on the popular billow William sail'd
Into our thrones, Britain the stranger hail'd,—
The Church look'd on, and blindly gaz'd.
Then her best sons were from the vineyard cast,
While loyal Truth in secret sat to mourn,
She knew not, of her strength and glory shorn,
The leav'n to her deep bosom past.
Since then, her children flock to Freedom's shrine;
She hath forgot her sackcloth, seeming fair,
Her discipline, her penitence, and prayer;
And wakes all nerveless to restrain.
When she hath hid her Cross, with glad accord
The world will welcome her, in beauty shrin'd,
And woo her charities, and, seeming kind,
Stretch forth those hands that slew her Lord.
Yea, often will she stop her gilded car,
To hear of treasures op'd by pardon free,
And fadeless joys, and calm eternity,—
Then passion-borne hurry afar.
Thus as her voice shall higher rise and higher,
The priests of God disown'd, His word put by,
Then shall the stars shake on the trembling sky,
And forth shall break the Judgment-fire.
