An English Church

The bells awake the Sabbath's choral prime,
By breezes softened to a harp-like tone;
Lowly and sweetly from the distance thrown,
They greet the ear with jubilee and chime;
Follow the sound, and it will lead thee on
Into an English church, the home of Prayer,
For who shall say she is not lovelier there,
Than in all other fanes beneath the Sun?
There, if thou doubtest, may it not impart
Fresh hope, to learn that others' hope is sure?
There, duly as the merchant to the mart,
Come aged men, whom daily death makes fewer;
There all the spirit of a Christian heart
Is bodied forth in gentle rites and pure.