<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395910" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Borough. Letter II: The Church</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'WHAT is a Church?'--Let Truth and Reason speak,<br>They would reply, 'The faithful, pure, and meek;<br>From Christian folds, the one selected race,<br>Of all professions, and in every place.'<br>'What is a Church?'--'A flock,' our Vicar cries,<br>'Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise;<br>Wherein are various states and due degrees,<br>The Bench for honour, and the Stall for ease;<br>That ease be mine, which, after all his cares,<br>The pious, peaceful prebendary shares.'<br>'What is a Church?'--Our honest Sexton tells,<br>''Tis a tall building, with a tower and bells;<br>Where priest and clerk with joint exertion strive<br>To keep the ardour af their flock alive;<br>That, by its periods eloquent and grave;<br>This, by responses, and a well-set stave:<br>These for the living; but when life be fled,<br>I toll myself the requiem for the dead.'<br>'Tis to this Church I call thee, and that place<br>Where slept our fathers when they'd run their race:<br>We too shall rest, and then our children keep<br>Their road in life, and then, forgotten, sleep;<br>Meanwhile the building slowly falls away,<br>And, like the builders, will in time decay.<br>The old Foundation--but it is not clear<br>When it was laid--you care not for the year;<br>On this, as parts decayed by time and storms,<br>Arose these various disproportion'd forms;<br>Yet Gothic all--the learn'd who visit us<br>(And our small wonders) have decided thus:-<br>'Yon noble Gothic arch,' 'That Gothic door;'<br>So have they said; of proof you'll need no more.<br>Here large plain columns rise in solemn style,<br>You'd love the gloom they make in either aisle;<br>When the sun's rays, enfeebled as they pass<br>(And shorn of splendour) through the storied glass,<br>Faintly display the figures on the floor,<br>Which pleased distinctly in their place before.<br>But ere you enter, yon bold tower survey,<br>Tall and entire, and venerably gray,<br>For time has soften'd what was harsh when new,<br>And now the stains are all of sober hue;<br>The living stains which Nature's hand alone,<br>Profuse of life, pours forth upon the stone:<br>For ever growing; where the common eye<br>Can but the bare and rocky bed descry;<br>There Science loves to trace her tribes minute,<br>The juiceless foliage, and the tasteless fruit;<br>There she perceives them round the surface creep,<br>And while they meet their due distinction keep;<br>Mix'd but not blended; each its name retains,<br>And these are Nature's ever-during stains.<br>And wouldst thou, Artist! with thy tints and brush,<br>Form shades like these? Pretender, where thy blush?<br>In three short hours shall thy presuming hand<br>Th' effect of three slow centuries command?<br>Thou may'st thy various greens and grays contrive;<br>They are not Lichens, nor like ought alive;-<br>But yet proceed, and when thy tints are lost,<br>Fled in the shower, or crumbled by the frost;<br>When all thy work is done away as clean<br>As if thou never spread'st thy gray and green;<br>Then may'st thou see how Nature's work is done,<br>How slowly true she lays her colours on;<br>When her least speck upon the hardest flint<br>Has mark and form, and is a living tint;<br>And so embodied with the rock, that few<br>Can the small germ upon the substance view.<br>Seeds, to our eyes invisible, will find<br>On the rude rock the bed that fits their kind;<br>There, in the rugged soil, they safely dwell,<br>Till showers and snows the subtle atoms swell,<br>And spread th' enduring foliage;--then we trace<br>The freckled flower upon the flinty base;<br>These all increase, till in unnoticed years<br>The stony tower as gray with age appears;<br>With coats of vegetation, thinly spread,<br>Coat above coat, the living on the dead;<br>These then dissolve to dust, and make a way<br>For bolder foliage, nursed by their decay:<br>The long-enduring Ferns in time will all<br>Die and depose their dust upon the wall;<br>Where the wing'd seed may rest, till many a flower<br>Show Flora's triumph o'er the falling tower.<br>But ours yet stands, and has its Bells renown'd<br>For size magnificent and solemn sound;<br>Each has its motto: some contrived to tell,<br>In monkish rhyme, the uses of a bell;<br>Such wond'rous good, as few conceive could spring<br>From ten loud coppers when their clampers swing.<br>Enter'd the Church--we to a tomb proceed,<br>Whose names and titles few attempt to read;<br>Old English letters, and those half pick'd out,<br>Leave us, unskilful readers, much in doubt;<br>Our sons shall see its more degraded state;<br>The tomb of grandeur hastens to its fate;<br>That marble arch, our sexton's favourite show,<br>With all those ruff'd and painted pairs below;<br>The noble Lady and the Lord who rest<br>Supine, as courtly dame and warrior drest;<br>All are departed from their state sublime,<br>Mangled and wounded in their war with Time,<br>Colleagued with mischief: here a leg is fled,<br>And lo! the Baron with but half a head:<br>Midway is cleft the arch; the very base<br>Is batter'd round and shifted from its place.<br>Wonder not, Mortal, at thy quick decay -<br>See! men of marble piecemeal melt away;<br>When whose the image we no longer read,<br>But monuments themselves memorials need.<br>With few such stately proofs of grief or pride,<br>By wealth erected, is our Church supplied;<br>But we have mural tablets, every size,<br>That woe could wish, or vanity devise.<br>Death levels man--the wicked and the just,<br>The wise, the weak, lie blended in the dust;<br>And by the honours dealt to every name,<br>The King of Terrors seems to level fame.<br>- See! here lamented wives, and every wife<br>The pride and comfort of her husband's life;<br>Here, to her spouse, with every virtue graced,<br>His mournful widow has a trophy placed;<br>And here 'tis doubtful if the duteous son,<br>Or the good father, be in praise outdone.<br>This may be Nature: when our friends we lose,<br>Our alter'd feelings alter too our views;<br>What in their tempers teased us or distress'd,<br>Is, with our anger and the dead, at rest;<br>And much we grieve, no longer trial made,<br>For that impatience which we then display'd;<br>Now to their love and worth of every kind<br>A soft compunction turns th' afflicted mind;<br>Virtues neglected then, adored become,<br>And graces slighted, blossom on the tomb.<br>'Tis well; but let not love nor grief believe<br>That we assent (who neither loved nor grieve)<br>To all that praise which on the tomb is read,<br>To all that passion dictates for the dead;<br>But more indignant, we the tomb deride,<br>Whose bold inscription flattery sells to pride.<br>Read of this Burgess--on the stone appear<br>How worthy he! how virtuous! and how dear!<br>What wailing was there when his spirit fled,<br>How mourned his lady for her lord when dead,<br>And tears abundant through the town were shed;<br>See! he was liberal, kind, religious, wise,<br>And free from all disgrace and all disguise;<br>His sterling worth, which words cannot express,<br>Lives with his friends, their pride and their distress.<br>All this of Jacob Holmes? for his the name:<br>He thus kind, liberal, just, religious?--Shame!<br>What is the truth? Old Jacob married thrice;<br>He dealt in coals, and av'rice was his vice;<br>He ruled the Borough when his year came on,<br>And some forget, and some are glad he's gone;<br>For never yet with shilling could he part,<br>But when it left his hand it struck his heart.<br>Yet, here will Love its last attentions pay,<br>And place memorials on these beds of clay;<br>Large level stones lie flat upon the grave,<br>And half a century's sun and tempest brave;<br>But many an honest tear and heartfelt sigh<br>Have follow'd those who now unnoticed lie;<br>Of these what numbers rest on every side!<br>Without one token left by grief or pride;<br>Their graves soon levell'd to the earth, and then<br>Will other hillocks rise o'er other men;<br>Daily the dead on the decay'd are thrust,<br>And generations follow, 'dust to dust.'<br>Yes! there are real Mourners--I have seen<br>A fair, sad Girl, mild, suffering, and serene;<br>Attention (through the day) her duties claim'd,<br>And to be useful as resign'd she aim'd:<br>Neatly she dress'd, nor vainly seem'd t'expect<br>Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect;<br>But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep,<br>She sought her place to meditate and weep:<br>Then to her mind was all the past display'd,<br>That faithful Memory brings to Sorrow's aid;<br>For then she thought on one regretted Youth,<br>Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth;<br>In ev'ry place she wander'd, where they'd been,<br>And sadly sacred held the parting scene;<br>Where last for sea he took his leave--that place<br>With double interest would she nightly trace;<br>For long the courtship was, and he would say,<br>Each time he sail'd,--'This once, and then the day:<br>Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went,<br>He drew from pitying love a full consent.<br>Happy he sail'd, and great the care she took<br>That he should softly sleep and smartly look;<br>White was his better linen, and his check<br>Was made more trim than any on the deck;<br>And every comfort men at sea can know<br>Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow?<br>For he to Greenland sail'd, and much she told<br>How he should guard against the climate's cold;<br>Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,<br>Nor could she trace the fever in his blood:<br>His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,<br>And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak;<br>For now he found the danger, felt the pain,<br>With grievous symptoms he could not explain;<br>Hope was awaken'd, as for home he sail'd,<br>But quickly sank, and never more prevail'd.<br>He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh<br>A lover's message--'Thomas, I must die:<br>Would I could see my Sally, and could rest<br>My throbbing temples on her faithful breast,<br>And gazing go!--if not, this trifle take,<br>And say, till death I wore it for her sake:<br>Yes! I must die--blow on, sweet breeze, blow on!<br>Give me one look before my life be gone,<br>Oh! give me that, and let me not despair,<br>One last fond look--and now repeat the prayer.'<br>He had his wish, had more: I will not paint<br>The Lovers' meeting: she beheld him faint, -<br>With tender fears, she took a nearer view,<br>Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;<br>He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said,<br>'Yes! I must die;' and hope for ever fled.<br>Still long she nursed him: tender thoughts meantime<br>Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime:<br>To her he came to die, and every day<br>She took some portion of the dread away;<br>With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read,<br>Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head:<br>She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer:<br>Apart she sigh'd; alone, she shed the tear:<br>Then as if breaking from a cloud, she gave<br>Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.<br>One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot<br>The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;<br>They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think,<br>Yet said not so--'Perhaps he will not sink:'<br>A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,<br>A sudden vigour in his voice was heard, -<br>She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,<br>And led him forth, and placed him in his chair;<br>Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,<br>The friendly many, and the favourite few;<br>Nor one that day did he to mind recall<br>But she has treasured, and she loves them all:<br>When in her way she meets them, they appear<br>Peculiar people--death has made them dear.<br>He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd,<br>And fondly whisper'd, 'Thou must go to rest;'<br>'I go,' he said: but as he spoke, she found<br>His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!<br>Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last,<br>A dying look of love,--and all was past!<br>She placed a decent stone his grave above,<br>Neatly engraved--an offering of her love;<br>For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed,<br>Awake alike to duty and the dead;<br>She would have grieved, had friends presum'd to spare<br>The least assistance--'twas her proper care.<br>Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,<br>Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;<br>But if observer pass, will take her round,<br>And careless seem, for she would not be found;<br>Then go again, and thus her hour employ,<br>While visions please her, and while woes destroy.<br>Forbear, sweet Maid! nor be by Fancy led,<br>To hold mysterious converse with the dead;<br>For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,<br>In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;<br>All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,<br>But short the time, and glorious the reward;<br>Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,<br>Regard the dead, but to the living live.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=George+Crabbe">George Crabbe</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395910" data-title="The Borough. Letter II: The Church de George Crabbe" data-description="'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 ..."></div> </div> </div>

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