 | Sonnets at the English Lakes |  |
77
LXXVII. A BELFRY SERMON ON CHRISTMAS MORN.
In no Church critic's high censorious mood,I still rejoice to hear the glad bells ring
The Gospel tidings of the new-born King,
So well their voices mingled on the flood;
For truth is such a many-sided thing,
I cannot deem that all the blest and good
Are gathered safe in one complacent brood
Beneath a narrow Evangelic wing.
And well I know the preacher there will date
The end of priesthood, pomegranate and bells,
From that first Christmas—in the pulpit here,
With self-same text, his office elevate:
But High and Low the belfry sermon swells
In one sure voice along the silent mere.
| Sonnets at the English Lakes | |