The Madisonian. [volume] (Washington City [i.e. Washington, D.C.]) 1837-1845, 1841-09-18

For memory loved web TO weave
OF all the young and fair,
Who gathered there with him to pray
For many long, long Sabbath day,
He saw again his youthful BRIDE
His white haired boys once more
All walked demurely side by side,
As in those days Of yore.
Alas those boys are old and grey
And she hath passed in death away.
1t stood like many a country church,
Upon spacious green
Whence style and bye-path 60 in search
OF cot, the hills between,
The rudest boor that turf would spare,
And turn aside his team with care.
smile, with no sarcastic smile,
As leach group review,
That came by many a long long mile,
In garments fresh aud new;
The Sunday dress--the Sunday air,
The thorough-greased and Sunday hair.
The straight, stiff walk, with Sunday suit,
The squeaking leather shoe,
The solemn air Of man and brute,
As each the Sabbath knew; :.
The conscious air as passed the maid,
The SWANS collected in the shade.
The females enter straight the door,
Andtalk wi, h those within
The elders on town matters pore,
Nor deem il deadly sim
And now the pastor grave and slow,
Along the aisle is seen 70 60.
Down drop the children from the seat,
The groups dispense around
Pew doors are slamm'd, and gathering feet
Give out busy sound
The sounding pipe and yiol string
No lnnupr thYnn0h the ol1 churrh ring
do remember with what awe
That pulpit filled mine eye,
As through the balusters | saw
The sounding board on high.
Those balusters la childish crime
Alas I've squeaked in sermon time.
That sounding board to me il seemed
A cherub poised on high
A mystery almost deemed
Quite hid from vulgar eye.
And that old Pastor, wrapt in prayer,
Looked doubly awful meath it there.
] sect il all once more once more
That heightened prayer hear
hear the child's foot kick the door,
see the mothers fear
And that long knotty sermon too,
My grandsire heard il all quite through
But as il deeper grew and deep
He always used TO rise
He would not, like the women, sleep
But stood With fixed eyes
And look intent upon the floor
To hear each dark point Ger and Ger
Hard thinkers were they, those old men,
And patient too ween-
Long words and knotty questions then
But made our fathers keen.
doubt me if their sons would hear,
Such lengthy sermons year by year.
But all are passing fast away
Those abstruse thinkers too
Old churches with their walls Of gray
Must yield 10 something new
Be-Gothic'd things, all neat and white
Greet every where the travellers sight.
And stern old men with hearts Of oak,
Their bedroom pews must quit,
And like degenerate, common folk,
In cushioned slip must sit
Twas sacrilege most monstrous, vile,
To tear away that old oak pile.
Twas sound in every joint and SILL
I've heard my Grandsire say
And hard they worked with right good will,
To pull its panks away.
Young men were they, who little cared
How old men fct-how old men Jared.
Aye pull them down, as well we may,
Those alters stern and old
They speak of those long passed away,
Whose ashes now are cold.
Few, few now the strong armed men
Who worshpped at our affairs then.
And they reproach you with their might,
The pious, proud and free
The wise in council, strong in fight,
Who never bowed the knee.
And those gray churches only stand
As emblems Of that hardy band,
Then pull them down and rear en- high
New tangled, painted things,
For these but mock the modern eye,
The past around them rings.
Then pull them down, and upward rear
A pile like those who worship there
Not stern and simple like the race,
Now passing fast away
But painted, vanished things in place.
Like those who come TO pray
Who keep the outward form with zeal