THE PARISH CHURCH

In blessed silence vegetates the place;
The wax-faced Virgins sleep in their attire
Of livid velvets and discolored wire,
And Gabriel's trumpet wearies on his face.

A marble yawn the dried-up font would trace;
There sneezes an old woman in the choir;
And in the sun-shaft dust the flies aspire,
As though 'twere Jacob's ladder for their grace.

The good old soul is starting at her chores;
She shakes the poor-box, and in reverence pores
To find how the Saint Vincent alms are going;

Then here and there her feather-duster hies;
While through the vestry doorway, come the cries
From out the barnyard and the gallant crowing.