| |
| IN the heat of a day in September | |
| We came to the old church door, | |
| We bared our heads, I remember, | |
| On the step that the moss covered o’er. | |
| There the vines climbed over and under, | 5 |
| And we trod with a reverent wonder | |
| Through the dust of the years on the floor. | |
| |
| From the dampness and darkness and stillness | |
| No resonant chantings outrolled, | |
| And the air with its vaporous chillness | 10 |
| Covered altar and column with mould. | |
| For the pulpit had lost its old glory, | |
| And its greatness become but a story, | |
| By the aged still lovingly told. | |
| |
| O’er the graves ’neath the long waving grasses | 15 |
| In summer the winds lightly blow, | |
| And the phantoms come forth from the masses | |
| Of deep tangled ivy that grow. | |
| Through the aisles at midnight they wander,— | |
| At noon of the loft they are fonder,— | 20 |
| Unhindered they come and they go. | |
| |
| And it seemed that a breath of a spirit, | |
| Like a zephyr at cool of the day, | |
| Passed o’er us and then we could hear it | |
| In the loft through the organ-pipes play. | 25 |
| All the aisles and the chancel seemed haunted, | |
| And weird anthems by voices were chanted | |
| Where dismantled the organ’s pipes lay. | |
| |
| Came the warrior who robed as a Colonel | |
| Led his men to the fight from the prayer, | 30 |
| And the pastor who tells in his journal | |
| What he saw in the sunlight’s bright glare, | |
| How a band of wild troopers danced under | |
| While the organ was pealing its thunder | |
| In gay tunes on the sanctified air. | 35 |
| |
| And Gottlieb, colonial musician, | |
| Once more had come over the seas, | |
| And sweet to the slave and patrician | |
| Were the sounds of his low melodies; | |
| Once again came the tears, the petition, | 40 |
| Soul-longings and heart-felt contrition | |
| At his mystical touch on the keys. | |
| |
| There joined in the prayers of the yeomen | |
| For the rulers and high in command, | |
| The statesman who prayed that the foemen | 45 |
| Might perish by sea and by land; | |
| And flowers from herbariums Elysian | |
| Long pressed, yet still sweet, in the vision | |
| Were strewn by a spiritual hand. | |
| |
| There were saints,—there were souls heavy-laden | 50 |
| With the burden of sins unconfessed. | |
| In the shadow there lingered a maiden | |
| With a babe to her bosom close pressed, | |
| And the peace that exceeds understanding | |
| Borne on odors of blossoms expanding | 55 |
| Forever abode in her breast. | |
| |
| Then hushed were the prayers and the chorus | |
| As we gazed through the gloom o’er the pews, | |
| And the phantoms had gone from before us | |
| By invisible dark avenues, | 60 |
| And slowly we passed through the portals | |
| In awe from the haunts of immortals | |
| Who had vanished like summer’s light dews. | |
| |
| O church! that of old proudly flourished, | |
| Upon thee decay gently falls, | 65 |
| And the founders by whom thou wert nourished | |
| Lie low in the shade of thy walls; | |
| No stone need those pioneer sages | |
| To tell their good works to the ages: | |
| Thy ruin their greatness recalls. | 70 |
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