Collected poems of Thomas Hardy With a portrait |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
THE CHURCH-BUILDER |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
156
THE CHURCH-BUILDER
I
The church flings forth a battled shadeOver the moon-blanched sward;
The church; my gift; whereto I paid
My all in hand and hoard;
Lavished my gains
With stintless pains
To glorify the Lord.
II
I squared the broad foundations inOf ashlared masonry;
I moulded mullions thick and thin,
Hewed fillet and ogee:
I circleted
Each sculptured head
With nimb and canopy.
III
I called in many a craftsmasterTo fix emblazoned glass,
To figure Cross and Sepulchre
On dossal, boss, and brass.
My gold all spent,
My jewels went
To gem the cups of Mass.
IV
I borrowed deep to carve the screenAnd raise the ivoried Rood;
I parted with my small demesne
To make my owings good.
Heir-looms unpriced
I sacrificed,
Until debt-free I stood.
157
V
So closed the task. “Deathless the CreedHere substanced!” said my soul:
“I heard me bidden to this deed,
And straight obeyed the call.
Illume this fane,
That not in vain
I build it, Lord of all!”
VI
But, as it chanced me, then and thereDid dire misfortunes burst;
My home went waste for lack of care,
My sons rebelled and curst;
Till I confessed
That aims the best
Were looking like the worst.
VII
Enkindled by my votive workNo burning faith I find;
The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,
And give my toil no mind;
From nod and wink
I read they think
That I am fool and blind.
VIII
My gift to God seems futile, quite;The world moves as erstwhile;
And powerful Wrong on feeble Right
Tramples in olden style.
My faith burns down,
I see no crown;
But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.
IX
So now, the remedy? Yea, this:I gently swing the door
Here, of my fane—no soul to wis—
And cross the patterned floor
To the rood-screen
That stands between
The nave and inner chore.
158
X
The rich red windows dim the moon,But little light need I;
I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn
From woods of rarest dye;
Then from below
My garment, so,
I draw this cord, and tie
XI
One end thereof around the beamMidway 'twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme,
And in ten seconds thus
I journey hence—
To that land whence
No rumour reaches us.
XII
Well: Here at morn they'll light on oneDangling in mockery
Of what he spent his substance on
Blindly and uselessly! . . .
“He might,” they'll say,
“Have built, some way,
A cheaper gallows-tree!”
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |