As of a church's holy night,
With low-browed chapels round,
Where common sunshine dares not light
On the too sacred ground,—
One glance at sunny fields of grain,
One shout of child at play—
A merry melody drives amain
The one-toned chant away!
My spirit will not enter here
To haunt the holy gloom;
I gaze into a mirror mere,
A mirror, not a room.
And as a bird against the pane
Will strike, deceived sore,
I think to enter, but remain
Outside the closed door.
Oh, it will call for many a sigh
If it be what it claims—
This book, so unlike earth and sky,
Unlike man's hopes and aims!—
To me a desert parched and bare—
In which a spirit broods
Whose wisdom I would gladly share
At cost of many goods!
* * * * *
III.
O hear me, God! O give me joy
Such as thy chosen feel;
Have pity on a wretched boy;
My heart is hard as steel.
I have no care for what is good;
Thyself I do not love;
I relish not this Bible-food;
My heaven is not above.