 | Beads from a Rosary |  |
71
THE VILLAGE CHURCH.
Thou'rt basking in the sunlight still,
Old Village Church, I know;
With just the same calm look, as when
I left thee long ago.
With just the same calm look, as if
To thee the task were given,
To show that aye the face of death,
Should wear the smile of Heaven.
Old Village Church, I know;
With just the same calm look, as when
I left thee long ago.
With just the same calm look, as if
To thee the task were given,
To show that aye the face of death,
Should wear the smile of Heaven.
The face of death—for round thy walls,
Each grassy mound bedight
With wilding flowers, was wont to wear
A smile of placid light.
And evermore the sunbeams came,
With shining pinions there,
As sent by holy ones, to breathe
God's calm upon the air.
Each grassy mound bedight
With wilding flowers, was wont to wear
A smile of placid light.
72
With shining pinions there,
As sent by holy ones, to breathe
God's calm upon the air.
The very children trod thy paths,
With hushed steps and slow,
Their merry laughter all subdued,
To timid whispers low,
Nor gathered they those little flowers,
That peeped the grasses through—
Perchance they dreamed the unconscious dead,
Might love their beauty too.
With hushed steps and slow,
Their merry laughter all subdued,
To timid whispers low,
Nor gathered they those little flowers,
That peeped the grasses through—
Perchance they dreamed the unconscious dead,
Might love their beauty too.
Old Village Church, in fancy, oft
I pace thine aisles again;
In spirit-echoes, rise and fall,
Thy solemn organ strain.
Each reverent head is bowed in prayer,
And bent each suppliant knee—
I ween God's angels well might lean
From Heaven, that sight to see.
I pace thine aisles again;
In spirit-echoes, rise and fall,
Thy solemn organ strain.
Each reverent head is bowed in prayer,
And bent each suppliant knee—
73
From Heaven, that sight to see.
Oh fast and thick, the memories
Of those early days, come back,
And lingering still, they leave behind
A freshness in their track;
My blessing on thee, ancient church,
A blessing full and free!
For dear, as dew to drooping flowers,
Those memories are to me.
Of those early days, come back,
And lingering still, they leave behind
A freshness in their track;
My blessing on thee, ancient church,
A blessing full and free!
For dear, as dew to drooping flowers,
Those memories are to me.
I never shall behold thee more,—
The stranger's home is mine,
But still my spirit's prayer is breathed
Before thy simple shrine;
And when thy Sabbath bell rings out
Its summons on the air,
I join the throng that fill thy courts,
And kneel amongst them there.
The stranger's home is mine,
But still my spirit's prayer is breathed
Before thy simple shrine;
And when thy Sabbath bell rings out
Its summons on the air,
I join the throng that fill thy courts,
And kneel amongst them there.
| Beads from a Rosary | |