The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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THE POOR MAN AND HIS PARISH CHURCH.
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
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THE POOR MAN AND HIS PARISH CHURCH.
A TRUE TALE.
The poor have hands, and feet, and eyes,
Flesh, and a feeling mind:
They breathe the breath of mortal sighs,
They are of human kind.
They weep such tears as others shed,
And now and then they smile:—
For sweet to them is that poor bread,
They win with honest toil.
Flesh, and a feeling mind:
They breathe the breath of mortal sighs,
They are of human kind.
They weep such tears as others shed,
And now and then they smile:—
For sweet to them is that poor bread,
They win with honest toil.
The poor men have their wedding-day:
And children climb their knee:
They have not many friends, for they
Are in such misery.
They sell their youth, their skill, their pains,
For hire in hill and glen:
The very blood within their veins,
It flows for other men.
And children climb their knee:
They have not many friends, for they
Are in such misery.
They sell their youth, their skill, their pains,
For hire in hill and glen:
The very blood within their veins,
It flows for other men.
They should have roofs to call their own,
When they grow old and bent:
Meek houses built of dark grey stone,
Worn labour's monument.
There should they dwell, beneath the thatch,
With threshold calm and free:
No stranger's hand should lift the latch,
To mark their poverty.
When they grow old and bent:
Meek houses built of dark grey stone,
Worn labour's monument.
There should they dwell, beneath the thatch,
With threshold calm and free:
No stranger's hand should lift the latch,
To mark their poverty.
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Fast by the church those walls should stand,
Her aisles in youth they trod:—
They have no home in all the land,
Like that old House of God.
There, there, the Sacrament was shed,
That gave them heavenly birth;
And lifted up the poor man's head
With princes of the earth.
Her aisles in youth they trod:—
They have no home in all the land,
Like that old House of God.
There, there, the Sacrament was shed,
That gave them heavenly birth;
And lifted up the poor man's head
With princes of the earth.
There in the chancel's voice of praise,
Their simple vows were poured;
And angels looked with equal gaze
On Lazarus and his Lord.
There, too, at last, they calmly sleep,
Where hallow'd blossoms bloom;
And eyes as fond and faithful weep
As o'er the rich man's tomb.
Their simple vows were poured;
And angels looked with equal gaze
On Lazarus and his Lord.
There, too, at last, they calmly sleep,
Where hallow'd blossoms bloom;
And eyes as fond and faithful weep
As o'er the rich man's tomb.
They told me of an ancient home,
Beside a churchyard wall,
Where roses round the porch would roam,
And gentle jasmines fall:
There dwelt an old man, worn and blind,
Poor, and of lowliest birth;
He seemed the last of all his kind—
He had no friend on earth.
Beside a churchyard wall,
Where roses round the porch would roam,
And gentle jasmines fall:
There dwelt an old man, worn and blind,
Poor, and of lowliest birth;
He seemed the last of all his kind—
He had no friend on earth.
Men saw him till his eyes grew dim,
At morn and evening tide
Pass, 'mid the graves, with tottering limb,
To the grey chancel's side:
There knelt he down, and meekly prayed
The prayers his youth had known:
Words by the old Apostles made,
In tongues of ancient tone.
At morn and evening tide
Pass, 'mid the graves, with tottering limb,
To the grey chancel's side:
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The prayers his youth had known:
Words by the old Apostles made,
In tongues of ancient tone.
At matin-time, at evening hour,
He bent with reverent knee:
The dial carved upon the tower
Was not more true than he.
This lasted till the blindness fell
In shadows round his bed;
And on those walls he loved so well,
He looked, and they were fled.
He bent with reverent knee:
The dial carved upon the tower
Was not more true than he.
This lasted till the blindness fell
In shadows round his bed;
And on those walls he loved so well,
He looked, and they were fled.
Then would he watch, and fondly turn,
If feet of men were there,
To tell them how his soul would yearn
For the old place of prayer;
And some would lead him on to stand,
While fast their tears would fall,
Until he felt beneath his hand
The long-accustomed wall.
If feet of men were there,
To tell them how his soul would yearn
For the old place of prayer;
And some would lead him on to stand,
While fast their tears would fall,
Until he felt beneath his hand
The long-accustomed wall.
Then joy in those dim eyes would melt;
Faith found the former tone;
His heart within his bosom felt
The touch of every stone.
He died—he slept beneath the dew,
In his own grassy mound:
The corpse, within the coffin, knew
That calm, that holy ground.
Faith found the former tone;
His heart within his bosom felt
The touch of every stone.
He died—he slept beneath the dew,
In his own grassy mound:
The corpse, within the coffin, knew
That calm, that holy ground.
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I know not why—but when they tell
Of houses fair and wide,
Where troops of poor men go to dwell
In chambers side by side:—
I dream of that old cottage door,
With garlands overgrown,
And wish the children of the poor
Had flowers to call their own.
Of houses fair and wide,
Where troops of poor men go to dwell
In chambers side by side:—
I dream of that old cottage door,
With garlands overgrown,
And wish the children of the poor
Had flowers to call their own.
And when they vaunt, that in those walls
They have their worship-day,
Where the stern signal coldly calls
The prisoned poor to pray,—
I think upon that ancient home
Beside the churchyard wall,
Where roses round the porch would roam,
And gentle jasmines fall.
They have their worship-day,
Where the stern signal coldly calls
The prisoned poor to pray,—
I think upon that ancient home
Beside the churchyard wall,
Where roses round the porch would roam,
And gentle jasmines fall.
I see the old man of my lay,
His grey head bowed and bare;
He kneels by one dear wall to pray,
The sunlight in his hair.
Well! they may strive, as wise men will,
To work with wit and gold:
I think my own dear Cornwall still
Was happier of old.
His grey head bowed and bare;
He kneels by one dear wall to pray,
The sunlight in his hair.
Well! they may strive, as wise men will,
To work with wit and gold:
I think my own dear Cornwall still
Was happier of old.
O! for the poor man's church again,
With one roof over all;
Where the true hearts of Cornish men
Might beat beside the wall:
The altars where, in holier days,
Our fathers were forgiven,
Who went, with meek and faithful ways,
Through the old aisles to heaven.
With one roof over all;
Where the true hearts of Cornish men
Might beat beside the wall:
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Our fathers were forgiven,
Who went, with meek and faithful ways,
Through the old aisles to heaven.
1840.
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