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| CARISBROOKE Church on the fifth of November | |
| Flung out the silver hid deep in her chimes; | |
| This was her burden, “Be pleased to remember | |
| The ill which they did in papistical times!” | |
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| Over the woods and the fields rich with tillage, | 5 |
| That fairest of islands embellishing still, | |
| People who walked in the streets of the village | |
| Might hear the sweet echoes chime back from the hill. | |
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| I think, my old church, you are somewhat ungracious, | |
| And do not remember from whence you descended; | 10 |
| Who planned you so skilfully, framed you so spacious, | |
| And laid your stone walls with zeal pious and splendid! | |
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| What was the fount of that bountiful spirit | |
| Which fashioned each porch to the innermost throne? | |
| Who pierced the fair windows whose light we inherit, | 15 |
| And carved the quaint heads of your corbels of stone? | |
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| Do you forget how the people rejoicéd | |
| When first you stood finished, the crown of the vale? | |
| What hymns of thanksgiving rose myriad-voicéd, | |
| What rich scent of incense was borne on the gale? | 20 |
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| Or have you forgotten how red were the roses | |
| Which wreathed the new altar now ancient and gray? | |
| Ah! many a witness around you reposes, | |
| Whose dead lips, unsealed, would remember that day! | |
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| Pacing the churchyard by moonlight in summer, | 25 |
| Watching the rainbow when green leaves turn sere, | |
| I think to the heart of a thoughtful new-comer, | |
| Each trace of the old Faith should surely be dear. | |
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| All she did here was both noble and tender;— | |
| God save her living core,—peace to her dust; | 30 |
| Inspired by her beauty, amazed by her splendor, | |
| The poet at least can afford to be just. | |
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| And I cannot endure to hear you assuring, | |
| At the top of your voice, (though a sweet one, ’t is true!) | |
| The mother who reared you with love so enduring, | 35 |
| That she and her children are nothing to you. | |
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