They should have roofs to call their own When they grow old and bent— Meek houses built of dark grey stone, Worn labourer’s monument. There should they dwell beneath the thatch, With threshold calm and free: No stranger’s hand should lift the latch To mark their poverty. Fast by the church these walls should stand, Her aisles in youth they trod: They have no home in all the land Like that old house of God! There, there, the sacrament was shed That gave them heavenly birth, And lifted up the poor man’s head With princes of the earth. There in the chancel’s voice of praise Their simple vows were poured, And angels looked with equal gaze On Lazarus and his Lord. There, too, at last, they calmly sleep, Where hallowed blossoms bloom; And eyes as fond and faithful weep As o’er the rich man’s tomb. ------- I know not why; but when they tell Of houses fair and wide, Where troops of poor men go to dwell In chambers side by side, I dream of an old cottage door, With garlands overgrown, And wish the children of the poor Had flowers to call their own. And when they vaunt that in these walls They have their worship-day, Where the stern signal coldly calls The prisoned poor to pray, I think upon an ancient home Beside the churchyard wall, Where roses round the porch would roam, And gentle jasmines fall. I see the old man of my lay, His grey head bowed and bare: He kneels by our dear wall to pray, The sunlight in his hair. Well! they may strive, as wise men will, To work with wit and gold: I think my own dear Cornwall still Was happier of old. Oh, for the poor man’s church again, With one roof over all, Where the true hearts of Cornishmen Might beat beside the wall! The altars where, in holier days, Our fathers were forgiven, Who went with meek and faithful ways, Through the old aisles, to heaven! A letter to one of the landlords in his parish shows how vehemently Mr. Hawker could urge the claims of one of the farmers.