Thomas Hardy — The Church-Builder

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!"