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The Borough. Letter II: The Church

'WHAT is a Church?'--Let Truth and Reason speak,
They would reply, 'The faithful, pure, and meek;
From Christian folds, the one selected race,
Of all professions, and in every place.'
'What is a Church?'--'A flock,' our Vicar cries,
'Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;
Wherein are various states and due degrees,
The Bench for honour, and the Stall for ease;
That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,
The pious, peaceful prebendary shares.'
'What is a Church?'--Our honest Sexton tells,
''Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells;
Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive
To keep the ardour af their flock alive;
That, by its periods eloquent and grave;
This, by responses, and a well-set stave:
These for the living; but when life be fled,
I toll myself the requiem for the dead.'
'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place
Where slept our fathers when they'd run their race:
We too shall rest, and then our children keep
Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;
Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,
And, like the builders, will in time decay.
The old Foundation--but it is not clear
When it was laid--you care not for the year;
On this, as parts decayed by time and storms,
Arose these various disproportion'd forms;
Yet Gothic all--the learn'd who visit us
(And our small wonders) have decided thus:-
'Yon noble Gothic arch,' 'That Gothic door;'
So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.
Here large plain columns rise in solemn style,
You'd love the gloom they make in either aisle;
When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass
(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,
Faintly display the figures on the floor,
Which pleased distinctly in their place before.
But ere you enter, yon bold tower survey,
Tall and entire, and venerably gray,
For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,
And now the stains are all of sober hue;
The living stains which Nature's hand alone,
Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone:
For ever growing; where the common eye
Can but the bare and rocky bed descry;
There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,
The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;
There she perceives them round the surface creep,
And while they meet their due distinction keep;

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