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| GRAY spire, that from the ancient street | |
| The eyes of reverent pilgrims greet, | |
| As by thy bells their steps are led, | |
| Thou liftest up thy voice to-day, | |
| Silvery and sweet, yet strong as aye, | 5 |
| Above the living and the dead. | |
| |
| Beneath thy tower, how vast the throng | |
| That moved through porch and aisle along | |
| The holy fane, the galleried height; | |
| As years came in, and years went out, | 10 |
| With sob of woe, or joyful shout; | |
| With requiem rest, or anthem bright. | |
| |
| Old faces haunt the ancient pew, | |
| And in the organ loft renew | |
| The sacred strain of earlier times, | 15 |
| When knight and dame in worship bent, | |
| And from their lips the homage sent | |
| That mingled with the answering chimes. | |
| |
| And here the patriot hung his light, | |
| Which shone through all that anxious night, | 20 |
| To eager eyes of Paul Revere. | |
| There, in the dark churchyard below, | |
| The dead Past wakened not, to know | |
| How changed the world, that night of fear. | |
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| The angels on thy gallery soar, | 25 |
| The Saviour’s face thine altar o’er | |
| Is there, as in the elder day. | |
| The royal silver yet doth shine, | |
| And holds the pledge of love divine, | |
| That cannot change, nor pass away. * * * * * | 30 |
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