Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/103

Rh

mid yon vale's secluded green, Through clustering thickets dimly seen, The village church, whose walls of snow, Column, nor arch, nor buttress show, Nor taper spire, nor tuneful bell, With echoing chime, or funeral knell, To pour upon the balmy air Sweet warning to the house of prayer.

Yet from their humble homes the train As duly wind o'er hill and plain, As faithful heed the hallowed day, As gladly press, their vows to pay, And hear God's word with trust as fair As though Religion's pomp were there.

Bent o'er his staff, with temples gray, The aged Pastor takes his way, Through shady lanes, where dew-drops bright, Exulting, shun the blaze of light;