THE VILLAGE CHURCH.

THE

HERE is a little village church, With walls of time-worn stone, Crowned by a square, embattled tower,

With ivy over-grown;

Half hidden by a grove of trees,
That year by year have shed
Their leaves upon the humble mounds
That lie above the dead.

Upon a pleasant hill it stands,

And far around are seen

Its grey old walls and green old tower, Peeping the trees between.

And from that church, o'er distant fields,
Oft on the breeze there swells
The music of that blessed sound,
The sound of Sabbath bells.

The lowly dwellings of the poor
Around it gather near;

And, in a cluster at its foot,

Their straw-thatched roofs appear.

From early youth to hoary age,

The villagers have trod

Yon path that upward leads the way
Into the house of God;

And there, in one unending train,
From immemorial days,

Have met to join the heartfelt prayer
And heartfelt song of praise.

And, while within its ancient walls
The sons their Sabbaths keep,
Their fathers underneath its shade
Lie in their last long sleep.

Oh! there a soothing quiet reigns
I never find elsewhere:

It smiles amid the mellowed light,
And floats upon the air.

No high-born folk in rich attire
Within it take their seat :

But none the less sincere are they
Who there to worship meet.

The preacher's language might to some
Rough and untutored seem;
For simple are his earnest words,
As simple as his theme:

But 'tis the sweet simplicity

Of truth's unstudied speech,

That enters where no honied words
Of eloquence could reach.

No wondrous anthems there are heard,
Nor lofty strains of art;

But hymns with holy music fraught,

The music of the heart.

No sculptured columns there are found,

Nor windows rich in hue :

But yet it wears a lovely grace
That captivates the view.

It may be that the seats are old,
And that the floor is worn,
And that no marble monuments
The modest walls adorn :

It may be there is naught to please
The high artistic mind,
And that the cultivated eye

No beauty there may find.

But old associations cling

Around the sacred spot,

Which make me find a charm therein

That others notice not.

For there my memory travels back,
With footsteps light and fast,
And calls up voices of the loved,
And visions of the past;

While spirits of a by-gone day
Enter the open door,

And whisper through the shady aisles,

And glide along the floor.

'Twas there my mother led me first,

Across the churchyard sod,

And taught my little lips to lisp

The holy name of God;

And one, whose love in youth I sought My lot in life to share,

Has passed with me beneath its porch,
And sat beside me there.

Thus, thoughts of childhood's innocence
And dreams of early love
Have underneath that roof appeared

As blessings from above;

While often on the day of rest,

The sweetest of the seven,

That earthly temple's quietude

Seemed like a glimpse of heaven.

Long, long may I, with gladdened heart,

Frequent the dear old place,

As long as life has left a spark,

Or memory a trace!

And, when at length the summons comes

Of Heaven's wise decree,

That calls me from this world away,
Another world to see,—

I would not that my bones should lie
In monumental state,

Within some mighty minster hid

In costly tomb and great :

But I would choose some peaceful nook, That village church beside,

Where underneath the turf they might

The last great day abide ;

That often in the evening-time,

When summer skies are fair,

And all the villagers go up

Into the house of prayer,—

Their feet, along the well-known path,
Beside the stone may tread,
That rises where my body rests
Among the village dead;

And, when their holy hymns arise
Within the hallowed fane,

May through the open window pass
The foot-falls of the strain,

And out into the churchyard steal,
Amid the flowers that wave
Beneath the gentle evening breeze
Upon my grass-grown grave.

C