For the slender spire of the Whitefield Church;
And feel for one moment the ghosts of trade
And fashion and folly and pleasure laid,
By the thought of that life of pure intent,
That voice of warning, yet eloquent,
Of one on the errands of angels sent.
Like the tide from the harbor-bar sets in.
And over a life of time and sense
The church-spires lift their vain defence,
As if to scatter the bolts of God