Poetry: The Village Church

I lovc ihe ivy mantled totccr, llock'd bv the storm, oí thonsand years; Tlie grave, w'1Ofe tnelancholy Sower Was nourish'd by a maityr's tears. T lie íácreíl yac so faníed in war. Which luie the sword to David given, l:flciei! more than human sc.ir. And leiit 'o man the arms of' lieaven. I love tlie organ'sjoy.us swe'I, Swbet echo of (he heavenly ode; I love ihe cheurful village bell, Faint emblcm of the cali of God. Waked by the sound I bent my feet, I bid my sWtAling sorrow case! I do but touch the raercy seat. And hear thc Jtill süiall voice of peace. And as ilie ray of evening fados, I love aniidst the dead to s.t;ml: Whme ín ihe ahar's g ehades, I sceüi to meet thc gl'osily band; One cuines - o'i mark his sparkling eyes, Thellght ol irlory klndlcs there; AiiDther - hcar liis dcep.dmwn sigh - Oh! 'tis thc sigh ofdumb despair. Anöthér trends the shadowy nit!e, 1 knchvy him - .tis my sunteJ sire - I knów his patiënt, angel sinile. His shepherd's voice, his eye of fire, His ashes rest in yomler urn - I siw his deaih - c'.osed his eye; Briíjht sprjrks a:iiidsi tlioee ashes burn, That. death liad tanght me how to die. Lonche our faiher's temple ours - Wo (o the. hand hy which it falla; A tfltHtSftlvd 8jrilü watch its towers, A cloud oí anuels guard its svalls. And he their shiehl hy us possessed; Lord, rear round thv biest aboilc, The liuttresd of a holy breas'. Tlie rampart of a present God.