We leave the church, where weekly prayer was
Ringed round with graves and fenced with elm and
Praise in a fairer shrine shall men renew,
Vows at a nobler altar shall be made;
Unheeded now the mossy dial’s shade,
No preacher climbs three stories high to view
The village magnate in his musty pew,
And Georgian galleries to dust shall fade.
White gleams the tower beyond the village street,
And proud and loud ring out the lustier chimes;
But some heart-flowers, transplanted, ne’er can grow:
These old church grasses still shall feel the feet
Of those, who hear the bells of other times,
And seek the holiest spot on earth they know.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 140)