Page:Poems Davidson.djvu/163

To mount the saintly ladder (made
By every monk, of every grade,
From portly abbot, fat and fair,
To yon lean starveling, shivering there),
And mounting thus, to usher in
The soul, thus ransomed from its sin.
And tell me, hapless bigot, why,
For what, for whom did Jesus die,
If pyramids of saints must rise
To form a passage to the skies?
And think you man can wipe away
With fast and penance, day by day,
One single sin, too dark to fade
Before a bleeding Saviour's shade?
O ye of little faith, beware!
For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer,
Will aught avail ye without Him
Beside whom saints themselves grow dim.
Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise
The faded forms of other days!
Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand,
The work of some forgotten hand,
Will teach thee half thy mazy way,
While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play;
Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell
Of secret charm, of holy spell,
Of Superstition's midnight rite,
Of wild Devotion's seraph flight,
Of Melancholy's tearful eye,
Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh,
That trembling from her bosom rose,
Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes