Classic Poem

Thou fane of many years, farewell!
Thy walls must in the dust be laid,
And we can now no longer pray
Where our forefathers prayed.
The altar at whose holy base
The kneeling crowds received the wine,
Must be no more a guarded spot,
A consecrated shrine!

Never again from thy tall spire,
Up-pointing to the Christian's home,
Shall peal the bell, whose Sabbath voice
Rolled o'er thy vaulted dome;
Nor shall the daily passer hear
Its solemn and familiar chime
Fall, like the ringing, signal strokes
Of that gray watchman, Time!

The monuments of good men gone,
Down from their niches rudely torn,
Inscribed in memory of good deeds,
Away from sight are borne;
And other tablatures will take
The places which they had of old;
But oh, what graven shapes or lines
Can tell the tale they told?

Thou venerable pile, adieu!
Another temple soon may tower
On thy foundations grand and high—
The wonder of the hour!
Let Art her gorgeous skill display,
And put thy humble walls to shame—
There still are hearts, old church, to keep
Thy worship and thy name!