"What is a Church?"--Let Truth and Reason speak, They would reply, "The faithful, pure, and meek; From Christian folds the one selected race, Of all professions, and in every place." "What is a Church?"--"A flock," our vicar cries, "Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise; Wherein are various states and due degrees, The bench for honour, and the stall for ease; That ease be mine, which, after all his cares, The pious, peaceful prebendary shares." 10 "What is a Church?"--Our honest sexton tells, "'Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells; Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive To keep the ardour of their flock alive: That, by his periods eloquent and grave; This, by responses, and a well-set stave. These for the living; but, when life be fled, I toll myself the requiem for the dead." 'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place Where slept our fathers, when they'd run their race. 20 We too shall rest, and then our children keep Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep; Meanwhile the building slowly falls away, And, like the builders, will in time decay. The old foundation--but it is not clear When it was laid--you care not for the year: On this, as parts decay'd by time and storms, Arose these various disproportion'd forms; Yet Gothic, all the learn'd who visit us (And our small wonders) have decided thus: 30 "Yon noble Gothic arch;" "That Gothic door;" So have they said; of proof you'll need no more. Here large plain columns rise in solemn style: You'd love the gloom they make in either aile, When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass (And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass, Faintly display the figures on the floor, Which pleased distinctly in their place before. But, ere you enter, yon bold tower survey, Tall and entire, and venerably gray; 40 For time has soften'd what was harsh when new, And now the stains are all of sober hue-- The living stains which Nature's hand alone, Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone, For ever growing; where the common eye Can but the bare and rocky bed descry, There Science loves to trace her tribes minute, The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit; There she perceives them round the surface creep, And, while they meet, their due distinction keep, 50 Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains, And these are Nature's ever-during stains. And would'st thou, artist, with thy tints and brush, Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush? In three short hours shall thy presuming hand Th' effect of three slow centuries command[39]? Thou may'st thy various greens and grays contrive: They are not lichens, nor like aught alive.-- But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,