Classic Poem

O, only see how sweetly there
Our little church is gleaming!
The golden evening sunshine fair
On tower and roof is streaming
How soft and tranquil all around!
Where shall its like on earth be found?

Through the green foliage, white and clear,
It peeps out all so gayly
Round on our little village here,
And down through all the valley.
Well pleased it is, as one may see,
With its own grace and purity.

Not always does it fare so well
When tempests rage and riot;
Yet even then the little bell
Speaks out,—“'T will soon be quiet!
Though clouds look black and pour down rain,
The sunshine, brighter, comes again.”

And when the organ shines and sounds,
With silver pipes all glistening,
How every heart then thrills and bounds,
And earth and heaven seem listening,
Such feelings in each bosom swell!
But what he feels no one can tell.

O, see in evening's golden fire
Its little windows gleaming!
Bright as a bride in gay attire,
With flowers and jewels beaming.
Ay, look now! how it gleams and glows,
Fair as an apricot or rose!

Within, our little church shows quite,—
Believe me,—quite as neatly;
The little benches, blue and white,
All empty, look so sweetly!
On Sunday none is empty found,—
There's no such church the wide world round!

See where, against the pillared wall,
The pulpit high is builded,
Well carved and planned by master-hand,
All polished bright and gilded.
Then comes the parson undismayed,—
They wonder he is not afraid.

But he stands up, a hero, there,
And leads them on to heaven,
Through all this world of sin and care,
The flock his God has given.
Soft falls his word, as dew comes down
On a dry meadow, parched and brown.

But see! the sun already sinks,
And all the vale is darkling,
Only our little spire still blinks
With day's last golden sparkling.
How still and sacred all around!
Where shall a church like ours be found?