Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
The Old Church
By Isaac R. Pennypacker (18521935)I
We came to the old church door,
We bared our heads, I remember,
On the step that the moss covered o’er.
There the vines climbed over and under,
And we trod with a reverent wonder
Through the dust of the years on the floor.
No resonant chantings outrolled,
And the air with its vaporous chillness
Covered altar and column with mould.
For the pulpit had lost its old glory,
And its greatness become but a story,
By the aged still lovingly told.
In summer the winds lightly blow,
And the phantoms come forth from the masses
Of deep tangled ivy that grow.
Through the aisles at midnight they wander,—
At noon of the loft they are fonder,—
Unhindered they come and they go.
Like a zephyr at cool of the day,
Passed o’er us and then we could hear it
In the loft through the organ-pipes play.
All the aisles and the chancel seemed haunted,
And weird anthems by voices were chanted
Where dismantled the organ’s pipes lay.
Led his men to the fight from the prayer,
And the pastor who tells in his journal
What he saw in the sunlight’s bright glare,
How a band of wild troopers danced under
While the organ was pealing its thunder
In gay tunes on the sanctified air.
Once more had come over the seas,
And sweet to the slave and patrician
Were the sounds of his low melodies;
Once again came the tears, the petition,
Soul-longings and heart-felt contrition
At his mystical touch on the keys.
For the rulers and high in command,
The statesman who prayed that the foemen
Might perish by sea and by land;
And flowers from herbariums Elysian
Long pressed, yet still sweet, in the vision
Were strewn by a spiritual hand.
With the burden of sins unconfessed.
In the shadow there lingered a maiden
With a babe to her bosom close pressed,
And the peace that exceeds understanding
Borne on odors of blossoms expanding
Forever abode in her breast.
As we gazed through the gloom o’er the pews,
And the phantoms had gone from before us
By invisible dark avenues,
And slowly we passed through the portals
In awe from the haunts of immortals
Who had vanished like summer’s light dews.
Upon thee decay gently falls,
And the founders by whom thou wert nourished
Lie low in the shade of thy walls;
No stone need those pioneer sages
To tell their good works to the ages:
Thy ruin their greatness recalls.