Classic Poem

Profanation.

Is there no sound about our Altars heard
Of gliding forms that long have watched in vain
For slumbering discipline to break her chain,
And aim the bolt by Theodosius fear'd?
" Let us depart; " — these English souls are sear'd,
Who, for one grasp of perishable gold,
Would brave the curse by holy men of old
Laid on the robbers of the shrines they rear'd;
Who shout for joy to see the ruffian band
Come to reform, where ne'er they came to pray,
E'en where, unbidden, Seraphs never trod.
Let us depart, and leave the apostate land
To meet the rising whirlwind as she may,
Without her guardian Angels and her God.