There shall grow a church whose steeple To the heavens shall aspire, There shall come the mighty people To the music of the choir. O’er the infant, robed in whiteness, There shall sacred waters fall, While the child’s own angel-brightness Sheds a halo over all. There shall stand enwreathed in marriage Forms that tremble—hearts that thrill; To the door Death’s sable carriage Shall bring forms and hearts grown still! To the sound of pipes that glisten Rustling wealth shall tread the aisle; And the poor, without, shall listen, Praying in their hearts the while. There the veteran shall come weekly With his cane, and bending o’er ’Mid the horses stand, how meekly, Gazing at the open door. But these wrongs not long shall linger— The presumptuous pile must fall, For behold the fiery finger Flames along the fated wall! III. Let the blinded horse go round Till the yellow clay be ground; Let no weary arms be folded Till the mass to brick be moulded, Say again what stately thing From the ruin shall upspring? Not the dome and columned chambers, Starred with words of liberty, Where the Freedom-canting members Feel no impulse of the free. Nor the pile where souls in error Hear the words, “Go, sin no more!” But a dusky thing of terror With its cells and grated door! To its inmates each to-morrow Shall bring in no tide of joy. Born in darkness and in sorrow There shall stand the fated boy. With a grief too loud to smother, With a throbbing, burning head— There shall groan some desperate mother, Nor deny the stolen bread! There the veteran, a poor debtor, Marked with honorable scars, List’ning to some clanking fetter, Shall gaze idly through the bars:— Shall gaze idly, not demurring, Though with thick oppressions bowed; While the thousands doubly erring Shall go honored through the crowd! Yet these wrongs not long shall linger— The benighted pile must fall, For behold the fiery finger Flames along the fated wall! IV. Let the blinded horse go round Till the yellow clay be ground; Let no weary arms be folded Till the mass to brick be moulded; Till the heavy walls be risen And the fire is in his prison! Every dome and church and jail, Like this structure, soon must fail; Every shape of earth shall fade! But the temple God hath made, For the sorely tried and pure, With its Builder shall endure! * * * * * TO MRS. A. T. BY DR. JNO. C. M’CABE.