 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
The Church of our Fathers.
1835.
[_]
[This lyric followed immediately on the preceding one, and was almost equally popular. See to music by Robert Guylott.]
Encircled by trees, in the Sabbath's calm smile,
The church of our fathers—how meekly it stands!
O villagers, gaze on the old, hallowed pile—
It was dear to their hearts, it was raised by their hands!
Who loves not the place where they worshipped their God?
Who loves not the ground where their ashes repose?
Dear even the daisy that blooms on the sod,
For dear is the dust out of which it arose!
The church of our fathers—how meekly it stands!
O villagers, gaze on the old, hallowed pile—
It was dear to their hearts, it was raised by their hands!
Who loves not the place where they worshipped their God?
Who loves not the ground where their ashes repose?
Dear even the daisy that blooms on the sod,
For dear is the dust out of which it arose!
239
Then say, shall the church that our forefathers built,
Which the tempests of ages have battered in vain,
Abandoned by us from supineness or guilt,
O say, shall it fall by the rash and profane?
No!—Perish the impious hand that would take
One shred from its altar, one stone from its towers!
The life-blood of martyrs hath flowed for its sake,
And its fall—if it fall—shall be reddened with ours
Which the tempests of ages have battered in vain,
Abandoned by us from supineness or guilt,
O say, shall it fall by the rash and profane?
No!—Perish the impious hand that would take
One shred from its altar, one stone from its towers!
The life-blood of martyrs hath flowed for its sake,
And its fall—if it fall—shall be reddened with ours
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |