to the people;
But their judgments are corrupted,
And they rule in wrong or favor.
There is constant din and bustle;
And the weary shopman standeth
Day to day in close confinement;
And the pallid seamstress sitteth
For a long and tedious twelve hours
Stitching, while her life is ebbing
In a rapid current from her.
Now awhile we see the playhouse,
And the giddy hall of music,
And the scenes exposed therein,
Oft immodest and immoral.
Next the nest of thieves and robbers,
With their heaps of spoil and plunder,
And their hidden laws and customs.
Then we seek the house of prayer,
Which is only weekly opened,
Or which day to day inviteth
Weary souls into its shadow,
There to hold a sweet communion
With the God who made and keeps them,
Or the silent hours of midnight
To employ in watchful prayer.
As we come unto His presence
Let us bow in holy reverence,
As is ever due and fitting,
To the God who there descendeth.
Now behold the people gathered;
They are all as one together,
But their thoughts are widely parted.
Some are earnest, true, and godly,
Others wicked and regardless;
Some are semi-sanctimonious,
(Most obnoxious of deceivers.)
Let us see their inward purpose.
One doth offer true oblation--
Praise and worship, as he seemeth;
While the thoughts of one near by him
Are among the world's pleasures;
And another has come hither
To give homage, style, and fashion;
And another thinks of feasting
(His great god is in his belly.)
Suchlike is the varied purpose
Of the lofty and the humble,
Met together and commingled
In this sacred house of prayer.
Now we leave this hallowed building,
And again the street we enter.
There we meet a mournful number,
In a mournful measuring treading,
All in sombre garments vested;
And in reverent awe we follow
To the place where sculls of dead men
And the framework of the body
In the grave's deep stillness slumber,--
Where the worms are ever feeding
On the bodies fast decaying.
There the mourners lay their burden
In the cold grave, weeping on it
Tears of anguish deep and bitter;
And they heap the mould upon it,
And return a little season,
Till the time for their departure:
Soon in death they also slumber.
Let us always keep as sacred
This still dwelling of our fathers,
Whereto oft the lonely mourner,
Oft the orphan and the widow,
Come to weep a tear of sorrow
On the cold ground which enshrineth
The remains of dear ones parted
Ever from their earthly presence.