Classic Poem

A long, low building, reared of brick and stone,
An iron railing running up its side;
A churchyard with its graves weed-over grown,
And epitaphs which tall geraniums hide.

A plumy pepper-tree hangs billowy boughs
To shade the portal of the ancient church;
On crumbled walls the droning hornets drowse,
And now and then some pigeon finds a perch.

Two swarms of bees have found a quiet home
In hollowed niches of the Mission's side;
Here they have treasured honey, hung the comb,
As years have flourished, pined away and died.

Here in the chapel hang the old-time saints,
Brought centuries past from convent-cells of Spain;
Stern-browed and formal, in their vivid paints
They hold their own as empires wax and wane.

This quaint baptismal font of copper here,
Old monks beat into shape for pious need;
Here fired with zeal, yet half in doubt and fear,
Three thousand red men chose the white man's creed.

Around the rectory door frail roses twine,
In pink and yellow clusters faintly sweet;
Lantanas glow like red and golden wine,
In brilliant sprays that hang from head to feet.

Flame not, lantana, with too bold a red,
Flush not, young rose, in vanity or pride;
Remember how your loving Master bled,
Remember how your loving Master died!

Without these walls one hears the mighty world
Rage like an awful ocean in alarm;
Here in this haven every sail is furled,
And every sailor safe from every harm.

Without these walls let revolutions roll,
Let epochs march, let progress never cease;
Here seek the balm that soothes the weary soul,
That gives the broken-hearted wanderer peace!