 | Longfellow's boyhood poems |  |
43
OLD PARISH CHURCH
[_]
[Written on hearing that the aged building was soon to be removed for the erection of a new one.]
Our Fathers' temple!—o'er thy form
In peace time's holy twilight falls:—
Yet heavenly light glows pure and warm
Around thy venerable walls:—
The shades of years have mellow'd long
But not obscured the light of God;—
Though they, that plac'd thee here, shall throng
No more the courts where once they trod.
In peace time's holy twilight falls:—
Yet heavenly light glows pure and warm
Around thy venerable walls:—
The shades of years have mellow'd long
But not obscured the light of God;—
Though they, that plac'd thee here, shall throng
No more the courts where once they trod.
Alas!—O'er thee Old Time hath cast
The mournful mantle of decay:—
His feet have o'er thy threshold past,—
His hand hath pluck'd thy strength away!—
Nor think we, as we gaze on thee,
How soon the hand, that seals thy doom,
Shall waste our own vitality,
And hide our ashes in the tomb!
The mournful mantle of decay:—
His feet have o'er thy threshold past,—
His hand hath pluck'd thy strength away!—
Nor think we, as we gaze on thee,
How soon the hand, that seals thy doom,
Shall waste our own vitality,
And hide our ashes in the tomb!
Pointing to Heaven,—our resting place,—
Thy spire its ancient form uprears,
And still upon thy walls we trace
The gray and gathering moss of years!—
Still from thy tower the deep-ton'd bell
Time's silent lapse proclaims on high;
Still breathes its long and last farewell
To perishing mortality.
Thy spire its ancient form uprears,
And still upon thy walls we trace
The gray and gathering moss of years!—
Still from thy tower the deep-ton'd bell
Time's silent lapse proclaims on high;
Still breathes its long and last farewell
To perishing mortality.
Now as at eve, with solemn feet
Thy consecrated aisles I tread,
Those that surround the mercy-seat
Seem here unto thine altar led.
I see the venerable hand,—
The patriarchs of our infant Church,—
I see the weak and trembling hand
Again the heavenly volume search!
Thy consecrated aisles I tread,
Those that surround the mercy-seat
Seem here unto thine altar led.
44
The patriarchs of our infant Church,—
I see the weak and trembling hand
Again the heavenly volume search!
And as the eye, grown dim in time,
With awe reviews the inspir'd page,
I hear the voice of truth sublime
Break quivering from the lips of age!—
Kneeling around thine altars old
Those holy men have joined in prayer,
That Israel's God would keep his fold,
And bless the shepherd of his care.
With awe reviews the inspir'd page,
I hear the voice of truth sublime
Break quivering from the lips of age!—
Kneeling around thine altars old
Those holy men have joined in prayer,
That Israel's God would keep his fold,
And bless the shepherd of his care.
And hark!—to Heaven the tuneful song
In soft and mellow musick steals:—
And now the anthem swells, and long
The solemn-breathing organ peals!—
My soul to earth resigns its fears,
Flush'd with the glowing dream of Heaven:
It sees thy sainted Sires,—and hears
The song of peace and sins forgiven.
In soft and mellow musick steals:—
And now the anthem swells, and long
The solemn-breathing organ peals!—
My soul to earth resigns its fears,
Flush'd with the glowing dream of Heaven:
It sees thy sainted Sires,—and hears
The song of peace and sins forgiven.
Ye holy men of God belov'd,
Who bow forever at his throne,
Ye in whose breast his spirit mov'd,
Whose thoughts and lives were all his own,—
Within this temple, when below,
The precepts of his love ye gave,—
And shall his temple perish now,
Without one hand outstretch'd to save?
Who bow forever at his throne,
Ye in whose breast his spirit mov'd,
Whose thoughts and lives were all his own,—
Within this temple, when below,
The precepts of his love ye gave,—
And shall his temple perish now,
Without one hand outstretch'd to save?
Thou hoary monarch, Time! awhile
From ruin spare this holy place!
Shall Peace desert the hallow'd aisle,—
And Mercy's cherub veil her face?—
Still may our Fathers' Temple shine
The record of departed years!—
Still may we worship at its shrine,—
Still bathe its altars with our tears.
From ruin spare this holy place!
Shall Peace desert the hallow'd aisle,—
And Mercy's cherub veil her face?—
45
The record of departed years!—
Still may we worship at its shrine,—
Still bathe its altars with our tears.
H.
September 25, 1824
| Longfellow's boyhood poems | |