The Church-Builder

I     The church flings forth a battled shade      Over the moon-blanched sward;     The church; my gift; whereto I paid      My all in hand and hoard:      Lavished my gains      With stintless pains      To glorify the Lord. II     I squared the broad foundations in      Of ashlared masonry;     I moulded mullions thick and thin,      Hewed fillet and ogee;      I circleted      Each sculptured head      With nimb and canopy. III     I called in many a craftsmaster      To fix emblazoned glass,     To figure Cross and Sepulchre      On dossal, boss, and brass.      My gold all spent,      My jewels went      To gem the cups of Mass. IV     I borrowed deep to carve the screen      And raise the ivoried Rood;     I parted with my small demesne      To make my owings good.      Heir-looms unpriced      I sacrificed,      Until debt-free I stood. V     So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed      Here substanced!" said my soul:     "I heard me bidden to this deed,      And straight obeyed the call.      Illume this fane,      That not in vain      I build it, Lord of all!" VI     But, as it chanced me, then and there      Did dire misfortunes burst;     My home went waste for lack of care,      My sons rebelled and curst;      Till I confessed      That aims the best      Were looking like the worst. VII     Enkindled by my votive work      No burning faith I find;     The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,      And give my toil no mind;      From nod and wink      I read they think      That I am fool and blind. VIII     My gift to God seems futile, quite;      The world moves as erstwhile;     And powerful wrong on feeble right      Tramples in olden style.      My faith burns down,      I see no crown;      But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile. IX     So now, the remedy? Yea, this:      I gently swing the door     Here, of my fane - no soul to wis -      And cross the patterned floor      To the rood-screen      That stands between      The nave and inner chore. X     The rich red windows dim the moon,      But little light need I;     I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn      From woods of rarest dye;      Then from below      My garment, so,      I draw this cord, and tie XI     One end thereof around the beam      Midway 'twixt Cross and truss:     I noose the nethermost extreme,      And in ten seconds thus      I journey hence -      To that land whence      No rumour reaches us. XII     Well: Here at morn they'll light on one      Dangling in mockery     Of what he spent his substance on      Blindly and uselessly! . . .      "He might," they'll say,      "Have built, some way.      A cheaper gallows-tree!"