I

The church flings forth a battled shade

   Over the moon-blanched sward;

The church; my gift; whereto I paid

   My all in hand and hoard:

      Lavished my gains

      With stintless pains

   To glorify the Lord.

II

I squared the broad foundations in

   Of ashlared masonry;

I moulded mullions thick and thin,

   Hewed fillet and ogee;

      I circleted

      Each sculptured head

   With nimb and canopy.

III

I called in many a craftsmaster

   To fix emblazoned glass,

To figure Cross and Sepulchre

   On dossal, boss, and brass.

      My gold all spent,

      My jewels went

   To gem the cups of Mass.

IV

I borrowed deep to carve the screen

   And raise the ivoried Rood;

I parted with my small demesne

   To make my owings good.

      Heir-looms unpriced

      I sacrificed,

   Until debt-free I stood.

V

So closed the task.  “Deathless the Creed

   Here substanced!” said my soul:

“I heard me bidden to this deed,

   And straight obeyed the call.

      Illume this fane,

      That not in vain

   I build it, Lord of all!”

VI

But, as it chanced me, then and there

   Did dire misfortunes burst;

My home went waste for lack of care,

   My sons rebelled and curst;

      Till I confessed

      That aims the best

   Were looking like the worst.

VII

Enkindled by my votive work

   No burning faith I find;

The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,

   And give my toil no mind;

      From nod and wink

      I read they think

   That I am fool and blind.

VIII

My gift to God seems futile, quite;

   The world moves as erstwhile;

And powerful wrong on feeble right

   Tramples in olden style.

      My faith burns down,

      I see no crown;

   But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.

IX

So now, the remedy?  Yea, this:

   I gently swing the door

Here, of my fane—no soul to wis—

   And cross the patterned floor

      To the rood-screen

      That stands between

   The nave and inner chore.

X

The rich red windows dim the moon,

   But little light need I;

I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn

   From woods of rarest dye;

      Then from below

      My garment, so,

   I draw this cord, and tie

XI

One end thereof around the beam

   Midway ’twixt Cross and truss:

I noose the nethermost extreme,

   And in ten seconds thus

      I journey hence—

      To that land whence

   No rumour reaches us.

XII

Well: Here at morn they’ll light on one

   Dangling in mockery

Of what he spent his substance on

   Blindly and uselessly! . . .

      “He might,” they’ll say,

      “Have built, some way.

   A cheaper gallows-tree!”