Poems (Chilton, 1885)/Old Trinity Church
OLD TRINITY CHURCH.
[NEW YORK.]
Farewell! farewell! they're falling fast,
Pillar and arch and architrave;
Yon aged pile, to me the last
Sole record of the by-gone past,
Is speeding to its grave:
And thoughts from memory's fountain flow
(As one by one, like wedded hearts,
Each rude and mouldering stone departs,)
Of boyhood's happiness and wo,
Its sunshine, and its shade:
And though each ray of early gladness,
Comes mingled with the hues of sadness,
I would not bid them fade;
They come as come the stars at night,
Like fountains gushing into light;
And close around my heart they twine,
Like ivy round the mountain pine!
Pillar and arch and architrave;
Yon aged pile, to me the last
Sole record of the by-gone past,
Is speeding to its grave:
And thoughts from memory's fountain flow
(As one by one, like wedded hearts,
Each rude and mouldering stone departs,)
Of boyhood's happiness and wo,
Its sunshine, and its shade:
And though each ray of early gladness,
Comes mingled with the hues of sadness,
I would not bid them fade;
They come as come the stars at night,
Like fountains gushing into light;
And close around my heart they twine,
Like ivy round the mountain pine!
Yes, they are gone—the sunlight smiles
All day upon its foot-worn aisles;
Those foot-worn aisles! where oft have trod
The humble worshippers of God,
In times long past, when Freedom first
From all the land in glory burst!
The heroic few! from him whose sword
Was wielded in his country's cause,
To him who battled with his word,
The bold expounder of her laws!
And they are gone—gone like the lone
Forgotten echoes of their tread;
And from their niches now are gone,
The sculptured records of the dead!
All day upon its foot-worn aisles;
Those foot-worn aisles! where oft have trod
The humble worshippers of God,
In times long past, when Freedom first
From all the land in glory burst!
The heroic few! from him whose sword
Was wielded in his country's cause,
To him who battled with his word,
The bold expounder of her laws!
And they are gone—gone like the lone
Forgotten echoes of their tread;
And from their niches now are gone,
The sculptured records of the dead!
As now I gaze, my heart is stirred
With music of another sphere;
A low, sweet chime, which once was heard,
Comes like the note of some wild bird
Upon my listening ear;
Recalling many a happy hour,
Reviving many a withered flower,
Whose bloom and beauty long have laid
Within my sad heart’s silent shade:
Life's morning flowers! that bud and blow,
And wither ere the sun hath kiss'd
The dew-drops from their breasts of snow,
Or dried the landscape's veil of mist!
O! when that sweetly-mingled chime,
Stole on my ear in boyhood's time,
My glad heart drank the thrilling joy,
Undreaming of its future pains;
As spell-bound as the Theban boy
List'ning to Memnon's fabled strains!
With music of another sphere;
A low, sweet chime, which once was heard,
Comes like the note of some wild bird
Upon my listening ear;
Recalling many a happy hour,
Reviving many a withered flower,
Whose bloom and beauty long have laid
Within my sad heart’s silent shade:
Life's morning flowers! that bud and blow,
And wither ere the sun hath kiss'd
The dew-drops from their breasts of snow,
Or dried the landscape's veil of mist!
O! when that sweetly-mingled chime,
Stole on my ear in boyhood's time,
My glad heart drank the thrilling joy,
Undreaming of its future pains;
As spell-bound as the Theban boy
List'ning to Memnon's fabled strains!
Farewell, old fane; and though unsung
By bards thy many glories fell,
Though babbling fame hath never rung
Thy praises on his echoing bell;
Who that hath seen can e'er forget
Thy gray old spire? Who that hath knelt
Within thy sacred aisles, nor felt
Religion's self grow sweeter yet?
For though the decking hand of Time
Glory to Greece's fanes hath given,
That from her old heroic clime
Point proudly to their native heaven:
Though Rome hath many a ruined pile
To speak the glory of her land,
And fair by Egypt's sacred Nile
Her mouldering monuments may stand;
The joy that swells the gazer's heart,
The pride that sparkles in his eye,
When pondering on these piles, where Art
In crumbling majesty doth lie,
Ne'er blended with them keener joy,
Than mine, when but a thoughtless boy,
I gazed with awe-struck, wondering eye,
On thy old spire, my Trinity!
And thou shalt live like words of truth,
Like golden moments of our youth:
As on the lake's unrippled breast
The mirror'd mountain lies at rest,
So thou shalt lie, till life depart,
Mirror'd for aye upon my heart!
By bards thy many glories fell,
Though babbling fame hath never rung
Thy praises on his echoing bell;
Who that hath seen can e'er forget
Thy gray old spire? Who that hath knelt
Within thy sacred aisles, nor felt
Religion's self grow sweeter yet?
For though the decking hand of Time
Glory to Greece's fanes hath given,
That from her old heroic clime
Point proudly to their native heaven:
Though Rome hath many a ruined pile
To speak the glory of her land,
And fair by Egypt's sacred Nile
Her mouldering monuments may stand;
The joy that swells the gazer's heart,
The pride that sparkles in his eye,
When pondering on these piles, where Art
In crumbling majesty doth lie,
Ne'er blended with them keener joy,
Than mine, when but a thoughtless boy,
I gazed with awe-struck, wondering eye,
On thy old spire, my Trinity!
And thou shalt live like words of truth,
Like golden moments of our youth:
As on the lake's unrippled breast
The mirror'd mountain lies at rest,
So thou shalt lie, till life depart,
Mirror'd for aye upon my heart!