Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander :: :: University of Virginia Library

“I saw thee viewing o'er and o'er,
From eastern cross to western door,
Yon ancient church right curiously,
The pointed windows moulded rich,
The buttress tall, the fretted niche,
Where saintly image wont to be.

“O, stranger, hadst thou seen it then!
In its first beauteous form; ere men
Did reverence superstition call,
And plucked the stone-work from the wall,
And broke the font, and dared to tear
From tomb, and shrine, the carving fair.

188

“They rose who said, 'twere shame to kneel,
Those ornamented walls within,
That the loud organ's solemn peal
Was mockery and sin;
That the Great God Whom Christians sought,
Loved hastier prayer, and strain less sweet:
And costly gift, and time, and thought,
Were not for Him an offering meet.

“I am a man of simple wit,
Unfit to strive, unapt to teach,
I could not answer to their speech;
And yet the honey-drop, I ween,
Is none less sweet in lily sheen,
For the fair cup that holdeth it.

“And sure the temple high and vast,
That God's Own Hand has made,
The shadowy mountains standing fast,
The long green aisle of forest shade,
Proud Nature's own eternal shrine,
Is beautiful as eye may see,
And outward things are for a sign,
And ever teach us silently.

“And scarce I deemed, they much misused
God's precious gifts of all abused,
Who brought Him back a part,
The costly things that wealth commands,
The curious work of cunning hands,
Perfection of fine art.—

189

“But when they told me the dear prayers,
That night and day to all my joys
Had comrades been, and soothed my cares,
Were idle form, and empty noise,
I knew their words were false and vain,
For deep in my own heart there rung
An echo to each hallowed word,
As when the harp is featly strung,
And by the sweetness of the chord,
We know how true the strain.

“But they had lost that soothing tone,
And their proud hearts waxed worse and worse,
Quiet and calm of soul were gone,
For all our blessings came a curse,
The heavy curse of evil strife,
Upon our peaceful peasant life.

‘They laid the tomb and altar low,
They poisoned many a simple heart;
And Richard to the wars would go,
And for the Commons’ part.

“'Twas said he fell at Marston Moor;
The grandam in her grave was laid,
The child was desolate and poor,
She had been welcome to the shade
Of my poor roof tree; but there stayed
That hour, at old Sir Geoffrey's park,
Stern men of aspect cold and dark;

190

They shut the poor man's lowly door,
They said the maiden must be sent,
To earn an honest livelihood,
Her sire had served the Parliament.
Ah me! their judgment was not good,
She was too young and innocent.

“There passed a stranger up the way,
Where Lilian stood alone with me,
And whispered how she might not stay
In her old home; the man was grey,
Into my face with strange wild eye,
He looked up, as he passed us by,
‘The king is slain,’ quoth he.

“Sweet Lilian laid in mine her hand;
The snow whereon we three did stand
Was dark beside the poor child's cheek;
Said she, ‘'Tis many a weary week
Since we have been to Church and prayed,
Let us go there and ask for aid
From God in Heaven, for our good king.’
‘Child,’ quoth the old man, wondering,
‘The king is with the Saints at rest;
When thou shalt bend the knee again,
Pray for the miserable men
Who smote that royal breast;
And for the land whereon the stain
Of his dear blood doth rest.’

191

“The traveller asked me of the time
And of the place, and of the priest;
I told him it was long a crime,
At holy tide, at fast, or feast,
To worship at our Father's shrine,
And for I saw his heart was true,
I told him of the faithful few,
Who with the holy Pastor met,
And still the bread mysterious ate,
And drank the consecrated wine.

“But even this was o'er, I said,
Close search for the good Priest had been
Ten days, and he had not been seen,
And some avowed that he was dead,
And some men spake of tyranny
That might not reach beyond the sea.

“I told him, too, of mine own fear,
Of the lone doom of Lilian dear,
And how our hearts were sunk and chill,
For we had none, for good or ill,
To counsel or to cheer.
And he did wring my hand, and say,
‘Take courage, brother, work and pray.

“‘The gales of spring are rude and cold,
Yet patiently the flowers unfold
Their fragrant breath, their colours bright;

192

And never yet the heart has beat
Too mean, too lowly, too unmeet,
To do its proper part aright,
Nor hand has been too weak or small,
To work for Him, Who works for all.’