On revisiting St. John's Church, Portsmouth, N. H.

AH! now again with joy I stand,Where oft in childhood's hour I stood,Or, kneeling with a worthy band,In faith how strong, in works how good;I see again the dim-lit aisleWithin this grand, this sacred pile.

The organ's peal now moves my soul,Reminding me of blissful years,And waves of music sweetly roll—How beautiful the scene appears;Now softly opes the vestry door,My sainted pastor comes once more.

Still trembling on my ear, each waveOf harmony, subdued and clear,And echoing through the vaulted naveThe anthems, bringing heaven near,A heart-renewing, touching strain,How sweet, how sad, to meet again.

To pastor still I owe a debtOf gratitude I ne'er can pay;How can the youthful heart forgetWho first revealed the heavenly way,Who first awoke, or lit the flameWith pictures painted in His name?

I felt I never more should stray,Temptation never more should harm,While here I learned the heavenly way,And drank the purifying balmWhich flows for all from Calvary's side,For all who will in Him confide.

The chancel and the altar railSuggest a sadder picture now,—'Twas here my lovely sisters knelt,Knelt for the rite, baptismal vow;And holy hands lay on each head;Long since they've slumbered with the dead.

And from the window I beholdA little grave with tablet rise;The story I have often told,How Mary left for Paradise;My playmate through those fleeting hours;Mine strewn much more with thorns than flowers.

My pen can scarcely now conveyThe scenes this old church brings to view;The prayer, the psalm, the solem lay,Are still more dear, and yet as new,As were they when I stood amongThis flock, when life and hope were young.