What various temples, since old Time began,
Have on this little globe been rear'd bv man !
What different kinds of gods been worshipp'd here,
Since earth, new form'd, was balanc'd in the sphere !
Some, ere the pointed pyramids, arose,
In lands remote, wliich scarce a modern knows.
When cost was nought — and Asia at command
Brouglit forth its treasures to the builder's hand,
The Jewish fanes which seem'd to scorn decay,
Tower'd in the sun—alas ! where now are they ?
Would wealthy Europe golden millions give
One column from those fabrics to retrieve,
'Twere all in vain — no stone, nor sculptured arch,
But Time lias trodden down beneath his march.
All the old temples built when Hesiod sung,
And those which stood when Homer's lyre was strung,
Are co ver'd o'er with herbage or with trees,
And not one relic the sage trav'ller sees.
The abbeys where ' Te Deum' oft was sung,
And sweet-tun'd instruments of music rung,
Are cloth'd with ivy's venerable screen,
And creeping lichens' variegated green;
Successive storms the towers in furrows wear,
And on their columns dampy sweats appear;
Tall shrubs upon the mould'ring arches grow,
And, drooping, wave o'er humbler weeds below;
And high engrav'd upon the time-worn scroll,
Scarce legible, the words, 'Pray for the soul!'
The long grass trembles on the broken wall,.
And ev'ry year some shatter'd fragments fall.

Not so with thee, O Church, so fair and new,
Wliite as the polish'd marble to the view. —
Ere any stone is loosen'd from thy wall,
New states may rise, and mighty empires fall!
Perhaps, like Greece, old Albion shall decay,
Ere those fine columns shall be worn away ;
Its commerce and its glory be no more,,
And science flee to some far distant shore ;
With lofty trees thou may'st be circled round,
And thy walls echo with the organ's sound.
A town may flourish on this barren hill,
Renown'd for science, commerce, wealth, and skill!

Here shall some pastor, learned, good, and just,
With solemn rite, resign the dust to dust;
Perform each office with a pious care,
And cheer the wretched sinking in despair.
The bride, with modest blushes on her face,
Shall lightly tread across the hallow'd place,
So fill'd with joy when to the altar led,
Joy mix'd with fear, — a momentary dread !
Here will the pious sons and daughters mourn,
As slowly from a parent's tomb they turn;
Here shall the tuneful youths, the virgin train,
Join with the pealing organ's holy strain,
Touch'd by the sweet expressive warbling trills,
That give those undescrib'd cold shiv'ring thrills
To minds possessed of feeling's sacred leaven,
And charm the soul, and lift it up to heaven.

But different sects in time may yet arise,
And the pure doctrines of the Church despise ;
A future reformation yet may come,
And o'er our blest religion cast a gloom.
Such great mutations have all earthly things ;
Creeds oft have changed with dynasties or kings!
The future generations yet may hope
For heav'nly bliss through pardons from the Pope ;
The cross, the holy water, and the shrine
Of some fam'd saint, may yet be thought divine!
But whatsoever doctrine here is given,
May every pastor teach the way to heaven !