POETRY.
THE LAST CHURCH. FRIEND, when the dews are falling,
When the red sunset fades, When summer owls are calling Deep in the darkening glades;
Some day we shall see beckoning A spire over the hill, A Church beyond our reckoning, One Church still.
It will be dark when we get there,
With a dim light inside, The lich-gate open set there, The west door open wide, Twelfth century triple moulded, Chevrony, billetty, beak,
No church-locking clerk to be scolded, No keys to seek.
We shall find no organ pealing, No singing boys to hear, Only twelve weepers kneeling, Six and six by a bier : We shall not see their faces Cowled and turned to the East, But there will be left two places Behind the priest.
There we shall take our places Turning still to the East, Close to the altar-paces, Close to the kneeling priest; And the light from the silver candles Will glint on the cope on his back, On the silver coffin handles, All else being black.
We shall take no heed of the prophets Dark in the grisaille glass, Of pannelled quatrefoil soffits, Of low-side window and brass ; But looking still to the altar, Follow the monotone, Change and change without falter Versicle antiphone.
Dirige, de profundis For the Churches of the past, Deus obruimur midis Is this Church to be last ?
And the lights will seem to us lower, The altar-candles dim, And the voices softer and slower, A funeral hymn.
Yet our hearts shall not falter Kneeling behind the priest, Turning still to the altar, Looking still to the East : Illd horci admonebor The present is as the past, Tuum vultum intuebor In that Church last.
J. MEADE FALENER.
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