Classic Poem

WHEN this half-century its course has sped,
And, like the vision of an earlier time,
The Church of God again uplifts her head
In this proud Isle — confronting social crime —
Confronting Death and Hell — all stately, bright, sublime!

Then, gazing back upon the years that now
Beneath us glide, and tracing how uprose
The fair-proportion'd citadel, and how
Grew in its strength of terrible repose,
Accessible to friends, impervious to foes; —

History will tell, and men amaz'd will see,
Amid what vast amount of tears and pain,
Amid what martyrdoms of misery,
Of torn affections, friendship's ruptur'd chain,
Homes wasted, life upturn'd, and hopes indulg'd in vain,

Were its foundations laid. Ah, Jesu, say,
What mystery is this! that evermore
Pure Faith should scatter thorns upon her way
Instead of roses? now as heretofore! —
No wonder that the world should her approach deplore!

But we, of all things taught an estimate,
Suspect in this some great necessity;
Lest the soul faint hereafter with the weight
Of that immeasurable felicity
Predestinated theirs who suffer here for thee!