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Church Poems

Table of Contents

  1. How still the bells in steeples stand by Emily Dickinson
  2. The New England Pastor by Timothy Dwight
  3. The Church Bell by Lydia Howard Sigourney
  4. In the Old Church Tower by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  5. Sunday Morning by Ruby Archer
  6. The Old Church by Margaret Elizabeth Sangster

  1. How still the bells in steeples stand

    by Emily Dickinson

    How still the bells in steeples stand,
    Till, swollen with the sky,
    They leap upon their silver feet
    In frantic melody!

  2. The New England Pastor

    Timothy Dwight

    The place, with east and western sides,
    A wide and verdant street divides:
    And here the houses faced the day,
    And there the lawns in beauty lay.
    There, turret-crowned, and central, stood
    A neat and solemn house of God.
    Across the way, beneath the shade
    Two elms with sober silence spread,
    The preacher lived. O'er all the place
    His mansion cast a Sunday grace;
    Dumb stillness sate the fields around;
    His garden seemed a hallowed ground;
    Swains ceased to laugh aloud, when near,
    And schoolboys never sported there.

    In the same mild and temperate zone,
    Twice twenty years, his course had run,
    His locks of flowing silver spread
    A crown of glory o'er his head;
    His face, the image of his mind,
    With grave and furrowed wisdom shined;
    Not cold; but glowing still, and bright;
    Yet glowing with October light:
    As evening blends, with beauteous ray,
    Approaching night with shining day.

    His Cure his thoughts engrossed alone:
    For them his painful course was run:
    To bless, to save, his only care;
    To chill the guilty soul with fear;
    To point the pathway to the skies,
    And teach, and urge, and aid, to rise;
    Where strait, and difficult to keep,
    It climbs, and climbs, o'er Virtue's steep.

  3. The Church Bell

    by Lydia Howard Sigourney

    When glowing in the eastern sky,
    The Sabbath morning meets the eye,
    And o'er a weary, care-worn scene,
    Gleams like the ark-dove's leaf of green,
    How welcome over hill and dale,
    Thy hallow'd summons loads the gale,
    Sweet bell! Church bell!

    When earthly joys and sorrows end,
    And towards our long repose we tend,
    How mournfully thy tone doth call
    The weepers to the funeral,
    And to the last abode of clay,
    With solemn knell mark out the way,
    Sad bell! Church bell!

    If to the clime where pleasures reign,
    We through a Saviour's love attain,
    If freshly to an angel's thought,
    Earth's unforgotten scenes are brought,
    Will not thy voice, that warn'd to prayer,
    Be gratefully remember'd there,
    Bless'd bell? Church bell?

  4. In the Old Church Tower

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    In the old church tower
    Hangs the bell;
    And above it on the vane,
    In the sunshine and the rain,
    Cut in gold, St. Peter stands,
    With the keys in his claspt hands,
    And all is well.

    In the old church tower
    Hangs the bell;
    You can hear its great heart beat,
    Ah! so loud, and wild, and sweet,
    As the parson says a prayer
    Over wedded lovers there,
    And all is well.

    In the old church tower
    Hangs the bell;
    Deep and solemn, hark! again,
    Ah, what passion and what pain!
    With her hands upon her breast,
    Some poor Soul has gone to rest
    Where all is well.

    In the old church tower
    Hangs the bell—
    An old friend that seems to know
    All our joy and all our woe;
    It is glad when we are wed,
    It is sad when we are dead,
    And all is well!

  5. Sunday Morning

    by Ruby Archer

    How sweet to wait within a holy place
    The hour of song and prayer,
    To yield the heart unto a spell of grace,
    Serenely brooding like a presence there.

    The hymns that live within the organ's heart,
    Flow silent o'er the soul;
    Unsounded echoes from the memory start,
    Like mystic writing from an angel's scroll.

  6. The Old Church

    by Margaret E. Sangster

    It lifteth its gray old spire from the heart of the busy town,
    Pointing the thoughts of the people from the things that bind men down—

    Up from toil and temptation, and struggle for daily bread,
    To the blessed Father in heaven, to whom our prayers are said,—

    Who knoweth what we have need of before it passeth our lips,
    Who pitieth and forgiveth our frailty and our slips!

    A century and a quarter dream-like has flitted away
    Since they laid the stone in the corner, one sunny summer day.

    Grave men and stately matrons and rosy children stood,
    While the minister sought a blessing for the church they built in the wood—

    That thither, for peace and comfort, might throng from many lands
    Those who should after worship in the house not made with hands.

    As it rose in its fair proportions, higher from day to day,
    In the shade of the forest round it, the children came to play!

    To-day the birds are singing from their nests in the dusky eaves;
    Then shook their matins and vespers out from the rustling leaves.

    Vanished the quiet forest! In its place the restless town,
    With its hive-like hum and bustle, its houses smoky and brown!

    The church in its green enclosure has only room for graves,
    And over the mossy tombstones the graceful willow waves!

    Here sleep the men and women of a hundred years ago,
    Folded in silent slumber, neath the sunlight and the snow.

    Out from the grand old spire still tolls the bell for the dead;
    Still merrily peals its music for the happy hearts of the wed.

    From the ancient oaken pulpit the message of God is given,
    And from Sabbath to Sabbath are sinners pointed to hope and heaven.

    The mourner findeth comfort, the weary findeth calm;
    And the sorely wounded spirit is soothed with Gilead's balm.

    Here the stranger's eye may brighten as he sees the greeting word:
    "Ever the stranger is welcome in the dwelling of the Lord!"

    And the rich and poor together to mingle worship come
    As the children of One Father—all bound for one sweet home.

    Long may the dear old spire, from the heart of the busy town,
    Lift the thought of the people from all that binds it down,—

    From wealth they must leave behind them, when low they lie in the mold,
    To the city whose walls are jasper, whose streets are paved with gold;

    Where we hope at last to gather, lifting our songs of praise,
    Where never a shade shall darken the sunlight of our days;

    And no voices with tears along them shall tremble in the chord
    Of the hallelujahs rising in that temple of the Lord.

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