Classic Poem

Where once our fathers offer'd praise and prayer,
And sacrifice sublime;
Where rose upon the incense-breathing air
The chant of olden time;—

Now, amid arches mouldering to the earth,
The boding night-owl raves;
And pleasure-parties dance in idle mirth
O'er the forgotten graves.

Or worse; the heretic of modern days
Has made those walls his prize;
And in the pile our Faith alone could raise,
That very Faith denies!

God of our fathers, look upon our woe!
How long wilt Thou not hear?
How long shall Thy true vine be trodden low,
Nor help from Thee appear?

O, by our glory in the days gone by;
O, by Thine ancient love;
O, by our thousand Saints, who ceaseless cry
Before Thy throne above;

Thou, for this Isle, compassionate though just,
Cherish Thy wrath no more;
But build again her Temple from the dust,
And our lost hope restore!