IThe church flings forth a battled shade Over the moon-blanched sward;The church; my gift; whereto I paid My all in hand and hoard:
Lavished my gains With stintless pains To glorify the Lord.
II
I squared the broad foundations in Of ashlared masonry;I moulded mullions thick and thin, Hewed fillet and ogee;I circleted Each sculptured head With nimb and canopy.
III
I called in many a craftsmaster To fix emblazoned glass, To figure Cross and Sepulchre On dossal, boss, and brass.
My gold all spent, My jewels went To gem the cups of Mass.
IV
I borrowed deep to carve the screen And raise the ivoried Rood;I parted with my small demesne To make my owings good.
Heir-looms unpriced I sacrificed, Until debt-free I stood.
VSo closed the task. "Deathless the Creed Here substanced!" said my soul:
"I heard me bidden to this deed, And straight obeyed the call.
Illume this fane, That not in vain I build it, Lord of all!"VIBut, as it chanced me, then and there Did dire misfortunes burst;My home went waste for lack of care, My sons rebelled and curst;Till I confessed That aims the best Were looking like the worst.
VII
Enkindled by my votive work No burning faith I find;The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk, And give my toil no mind;From nod and wink I read they think That I am fool and blind.
VIII
My gift to God seems futile, quite;
The world moves as erstwhile;
And powerful wrong on feeble right Tramples in olden style.
My faith burns down, I see no crown;
But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.
IX
So now, the remedy? Yea, this:
I gently swing the door Here, of my fane--no soul to wis -And cross the patterned floor To the rood-screen That stands between The nave and inner chore.
XThe rich red windows dim the moon, But little light need I;I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn From woods of rarest dye;Then from below My garment, so, I draw this cord, and tie XIOne end thereof around the beam Midway 'twixt Cross and truss:
I noose the nethermost extreme, And in ten seconds thus I journey hence -To that land whence No rumour reaches us.
XII
Well: Here at morn they'll light on one Dangling in mockery Of what he spent his substance on Blindly and uselessly! . . .
"He might," they'll say, "Have built, some way.
A cheaper gallows-tree!"
