There was no scent of incense in the air, No sense of all the past breathed through the aisle, The white glass windows turned to mocking glare The lovely sunset's gracious rosy smile. A vault, a tomb wherein was laid to sleep All that a man might give his life to keep If only for an instant's breathing while!
Cold with my rage against the men who held At such cheap rate the labours of the dead, My heart within me sank, while o'er it swelled A sadness that would not be comforted; An awe came on me, and I seemed to face The invisible spirit of the dreary place, To hear the unheard voice of it, which said:--
"Is love, then, dead upon earth? Ah! who shall tell or be told What my walls were once worth When men worked for love, not for gold? Each stone was made to hold A heartful of love and faith; Now love and faith are dead, Dead are the prayers that are said, Nothing is living but Death!
"Oh for the old glad days, Incense thick in the air, Passion of thanks and of praise, Passion of trust and of prayer! Ah! the old days were fair, Love on the earth was then, Strong were men's souls, and brave: Those men lie in the grave, They will live not again!
"Then all my arches rang With music glorious and sweet, Men's souls burned as they sang, Tears fell down at their feet, Hearts with the Christ-heart beat, Hands in men's hands held fast; Union and brotherhood were! Ah! the old days were fair, Therefore the old days passed.
"Then, when later there came Hatred, anger and strife, The sword blood-red and the flame And the stake and contempt of life, Husband severed from wife, Hearts with the Christ-heart bled: Through the worst of the fight Still the old fire burned bright, Still the old faith was not dead.
"Though they tore my Christ from the cross, And mocked at the Mother of Grace, And broke my windows across, Defiling the holy place-- Children of death and disgrace! They spat on the altar stone, They tore down and trampled the rood, Stained my pillars with blood, Left me lifeless, alone--
"Yet, when my walls were left Robbed of all beauty and bare, Still God cancelled the theft, The soul of the thing was there. In my damp, unwindowed air Fugitives stopped to pray, And their prayers were splendid to hear, Like the sound of a storm that is near-- And love was not dead that day.