The Village Church

I love the simple village church, Though framed uncouth, or sculptured rude, With ivy twining round its porch Amidst a leafy solitude.

It’s moss-clad stones, the verdure round, The yew tree’s shadow, dim and wan, The wild-flowers o’er each burial mound Seem speaking more of God than man.

Unlike the dark sepulchral vault, In towns where corses crowded lie; Such quiet scenes our thoughts exalt From death below to life on high.

The Rustic, pointing to the spot, Says “there my father’s ashes rest;”— Whilst cherished feelings, ne’er forgot, With sacred joy suffuse his breast.

“Oh! may I live the life he lived, So pious, pure, and free from pride, And when my spirit quits the earth My bones be buried by his side.

“I love this ancient village church; Its pathway my forefathers trod, When from their quiet cottage homes They hither came to worship God.

“In infancy they here were brought, And here their vows of love were sealed, And here their ‘earthly house’ was laid When death a higher life revealed.”