‘It was a sadder sight than one would think,
To see that ruined church upon the hill,
Deserted, dreary, lone and desolate;
But then its spire would point to heaven still.
Like standard-bearer wounded in the fight,
Who, with his last remaining strength, upholds
His nation’s banner; so this dying church,
In its last hours, seemed bent on saving souls.
‘Twas sad to see the windows broken through;
But then they let God’s air and sunshine in:
The church, once closed to keep all errors out,
Now seemed as if it prayed more light to win.
And early spring-birds entered fearless there,
Within the church-pale unconverted came,
And built their nests within the pulpit’s shade,
And never dreamed there could be any blame…’
‘I wondered if the ancient fathers slept
In peace, within the churchyard just away,
While this, their pride, their consecrated dome,
So all unheeded crumbled to decay;
And more, if creeds escape while churches fall,
If they’ve no broken doors and windows, too,
By time’s or progress’ hand,—through which the light
Of higher truths comes brightly streaming through.
I climbed with fear the staircase weak and old,
That tottered like a ship by tempest driven,
And wondered if the saints had feared as much,
When through its creed they groped their way to heaven;
And stood within the galleries that ran
From end to end, and bent and gazed below
With heart that trembled like the saints of old,
Lest all should crumble, and I “sink to woe.”…’
‘And, as I gazed, and thought how sad that now
No feet of worshippers its old aisles trod,—
Alike forsaken by its builder, man,
And him to whom they gave, its owner, God;
I heard the voice of children in their mirth,
A group of little faces gathered there,
All unbaptized, some fresh from God’s own hand,
Who played and sported where they knelt in prayer.
I lingered till the human angels passed,—
Until the sun was growing faint and dim,
When, soft and sweet, amid the, stillness there,
The birds—Heaven’s choir—began their vesper hymn;
And while I listened to their “Te Deum,”
That made the ruin with its echo ring,
I said, “Not half so sweet the anthems loud,
That many souls in dim cathedrals sing!”‘
Extracts from The Ruined Church by Achsa Sprague (published posthumously, 1864)
Photographs show the ruins of Coolaghflags church, County Kilkenny, a late mediaeval chapel which was enlarged c.1750.
The Irish Aesthete is generously supported by
