And owns that once at home again, With fonder love his heart would bless Each humble, lowly, haloëd fane That sanctifies thy loveliness. But here, alas! the heart was wrung To see so wan, so drear a waste-- Life's thorns and briars rankly sprung, And peace and love, its flowers, displaced. And weary seasons pass'd away, As time's fast ebbing tide roll'd by, To thousands rose no Sabbath-day, They lived--to suffer--sin--and die! Then men of Christian spirit came, They saw the mournful scene with grief; To such it e'er hath been the same To know distress and give relief. They told the tale, nor vainly told-- They won assistance far and wide; His heart were dull indeed and cold Who such petitioner denied. They chose a slightly rising hill That bordered closely on the road, And workmen brought of care and skill, And wains with many a cumbrous load. With holy prayer and chanted hymn The task was sped upon its way; And hearts beat high and eyes were dim To see so glad a sight that day. And slowly as the work ascends, In just proportions strong and fair, How watchfully its early friends With zealous ardour linger near. 'Tis finished now--a Gothic pile, --Brave handiwork of faith and love-- In England's ancient hallowed style, That pointeth aye, like hope, above: With stately tower and turret high, And quaint-arch'd door, and buttress'd wall, And window stain'd of various dye, And antique moulding over all. And hark! the Sabbath-going bell! A solemn tale it peals abroad-- To all around its echoes tell "This building is the house of God!" * * * * * Say, Churchman! doth no still, small voice Within you whisper--"while 'tis day Go bid the desert place rejoice!" Your Saviour's high behest obey: "Say not your pow'rs are scant and weak, What hath been done, may be anew; He addeth strength to all who seek To serve Him with affection true."