Classic Poem

A BUILDING rear'd by Saxon hands!
A fane, where Saxon hearts might pray!
They worshipped here long ages past —
We worship here to-day!

Since that low window-arch was bent,
There have been many a rise and fall:
And this lone temple of the poor
Stands preaching over all!

The rude, rough Saxon, rear'd it up,
The temple of his God to be;
And here, in simple earnestness,
He came and bent the knee.

Then came the Norman, in his pride,
Attended by his Saxon slaves;
And then the priest of later times
Sang mass above their graves!

The mind grew free — the ancient faith,
With all its pomp and pageantry,
Fell down; — a spirit stern arose,
And said it should not be!

And now, to-day the peasant hind
Beside that lowly altar knelt;
And 'neath that roof, had feelings such
As Normans, Saxons, felt!

Come, Saxon, in thy rude attire —
Come, Norman, in thy coat of mail —
Come, priest, with cross and counted beads —
And parson, do not fail.

Beneath one roof ye all have pray'd —
Upon one floor have bent the knee;
Your creeds are far asunder rent —
But come and answer me.

As then you knelt, did upward rise
Each heart in love and gratitude?
Did each, in different form and name;
Adore the true and good?

They answer, yes! then vanish all
Into oblivion once again;
There is a holy lesson here;
I'll carry it to men!

The priest may sneer — the bigot curse —
I care not for the form and creed;
The earnest will be bless'd — the true
And pure, in word and deed!

The hands that rear'd these crumbling walls —
The hearts that long have ceased to live —
They did their part — a temple rear'd —
Which lessons bright doth give.