The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
Could I describe the days of olden time,
When first this valley heard the varying chime;—
I hear them yet—am present at the hour
When zealous crowds from every village pour,
At early morn, upon the holy day,
To worship God, confess their sins, and pray.
No bigot sects come proudly, faults to find,
But all one creed, one doctrine, heart, and mind.
The Church, establish'd, is their favourite place,
And reverence dwells on every varied face.
The manor's lord, with all his household, comes,—
His honest tenants leave their distant homes;
The rural peasant takes his frugal wife,
And ev'ry child, without religious strife.
The aged come, with years of labour worn,
Nor stop, though distant, on the holy morn.
The daughter here an aged mother bears,
Supports her steps, her fainting spirits cheers;
And there the son leads on his pious sire,
Warmed with devotion's purest, holiest fire.
'Tis reverence all—no lightsome smile appears,
See them, and blush, ye modern worshippers!
Your fathers met their Maker to adore,
Devoutly read the Vulgate verses o'er,
And from the priest words of affection flowed—
He prayed, he wept—until the list'ning crowd
Melted to tears; and tears that were not feigned,
Like crystal drops, from all the audience rained.
Such were the days when churches were rebuilt,
Though days of darkness, not so great their guilt.
When first this valley heard the varying chime;—
I hear them yet—am present at the hour
When zealous crowds from every village pour,
At early morn, upon the holy day,
To worship God, confess their sins, and pray.
No bigot sects come proudly, faults to find,
But all one creed, one doctrine, heart, and mind.
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And reverence dwells on every varied face.
The manor's lord, with all his household, comes,—
His honest tenants leave their distant homes;
The rural peasant takes his frugal wife,
And ev'ry child, without religious strife.
The aged come, with years of labour worn,
Nor stop, though distant, on the holy morn.
The daughter here an aged mother bears,
Supports her steps, her fainting spirits cheers;
And there the son leads on his pious sire,
Warmed with devotion's purest, holiest fire.
'Tis reverence all—no lightsome smile appears,
See them, and blush, ye modern worshippers!
Your fathers met their Maker to adore,
Devoutly read the Vulgate verses o'er,
And from the priest words of affection flowed—
He prayed, he wept—until the list'ning crowd
Melted to tears; and tears that were not feigned,
Like crystal drops, from all the audience rained.
Such were the days when churches were rebuilt,
Though days of darkness, not so great their guilt.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |