And with them I enter the narrow door
That open stands as it stood of yore;
And look up again at the windows tall,--
At the narrow aisles and the naked wall,--
At the high, straight pulpit with cushion red,
And its worn, old Bible still open spread,--
At the pews where, unhindered, the slant rays fall,--
At the long, plain gallery over all
Where maid and matron, and son and sire,
Together sang in the old church-choir.
And again, as I listen, I seem to hear
The strains of old, half-forgotten Mear,
And solemn China, and grave Dundee,
And stately Rockingham, calm and free,
And rare Old-Hundred's majestic swell,
And tender Hebron we loved so well,
And tuneful Stonefield's melodies sweet,
Bridgewater, Windham, and Silver-street,
And rich St. Martin, and yet again
Old Coronation's exultant strain,
And sweet Devizes' slow, warbled tone,
Resounding Lenox and Arlington,
And gentle Boyleston, and many more
Which Memory holds in her treasured store,
That rise and fall on the tranquil air,
As they did of old, in this house of prayer;
Where, Sabbath by Sabbath, for many a year,
Often and often we sang them here.
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