SONNETS.
229
XV.
A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.
Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane,
Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane,
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms!—yet not alone,
For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee, midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer!
But for their sakes who unto thee repair
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore.
Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer,
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear,
Within thy lowly walls for evermore!
