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SWEETMEAJ^r 'A^fBMY'^

A FALLEN Fane — a ruin ivy-clad, Vacant it stands amid long rows of graves, The silent haunt of thoughts and memories sad That rise and break upon the soul, like waves. There is no altar there, nor crucifix, No white-stoled priest, nor sound of tinkling bells. No silver cresset now, nor sacred pyx, No voice of choristers that sinks and swells, No slow procession 'neath the vaulted arch, Or seen in glimpses 'twixt the pillars slim, Chaunting a De prqfundis, as they march Along the stony galleries high and dim. No whispers come from still confessionals. Nor muttered prayers from chapel there or shrine, No votive offerings drape the bare cold walls. Nor low prostrations hail the bread and wine. Only a ruin grey with centuries. But yet how beautiful within, without ! Rising above the elms and cypress-trees, With low green mounds and gravestones all about. The shattered tower is clasped with ivy roots. And leafy masses thronged with twittering birds; From the bell-chamber high the grey owl hoots, When evening's hush is on the flocks and herds. And for the voice that read the Holy Book, And for the censer with its fragrant breath. Are now the rusty cawing of the rook. And chill dank smells of withering and death. Yet is the beauty wonderful and rare In the antique simplicity of Art, Each chosen stone here shaped and built with care, A thing to fill the mind and touch the heart ; Quaint corbeils, traceried windows, pillared aisles, And carven niches, but the saints are gone. And flying buttresses, and grim garguyles. And a low porch with seats of smooth-worn stone. Roofless, it bears the brunt of wind and rain. And on its walls grows many a wasteful weed ; Yet do the grace and grandeur still remain Of that old emblem of a worn-out creed. Which sees no worshippers on bended knees. Which knows no difl^erence of the Sabbath-day, Which hears no voice of solemn litanies. And has no future but a slow decay. So has the old church fallen that shaped the past. It stands a dead thing now among the dead. For all our faiths and worships only last Until the word of higher law is said. We gain the sense of individual Right, And Mediaeval phantoms quickly fly ; We watch the dawn of Science growing bright. And Metapliysic fictions also die. A little while their ghosts may haunt the scene Where once they lived, and seem to live on still, Mumbling the words that erst a power had been. And with no grain still grinding the old mill. But yet it comes at last, the vacant place That hears no more the psalm or solemn vow, Even while we cling unto its tender grace. And dream that life was lovelier then than now. Walter Smith.