"The Church-Builder"

Thomas Hardy is a famous English poet. This year (2010) is the 170th anniversary from his birth (2nd June 1840). Apart from being an important poet he was also trained as an Architect and was involved in building as well as restoring Churches. One of his well known poems, which is inspired by his profession is the following:

The Church-Builder

The church flings forth a battled shade

Over the moon-blanched sward:

The church; my gift; whereto I paid

My all in hand and hoard;

Lavished my gains

With stintless pains

To glorify the Lord.

-

I squared the broad foundations in

Of ashlared masonry;

I moulded mullions thick and thin,

Hewed fillet and ogee;

I circleted

Each sculptured head

With nimb and canopy.

-

I called in many a craftsmaster

To fix emblazoned glass,

To figure Cross and Sepulchure

On dossal, boss, and brass.

My gold all spent,

My jewels went

To gem the cups of Mass.

-

I borrowed deep to carve the screen

And raise the ivoried Rood;

I parted with my small demesne

To make my owings good.

Heir-looms unpriced

I sacrificed,

Until debt-free I stood.

-

So closed the task. "Deathless the Creed

Here substanced!" said my soul:

"I heard me bidden to this deed,

And straight obeyed the call.

Illume this fane,

That not in vain

I build it, Lord of all!"

-

But, as it chanced me, then and there

Did dire misfortunes burst;

My home went waste for lack of care,

My sons rebelled and curst;

Till I confessed

That aims the best

Were looking like the worst.

-

Enkindled by my votive work

No burning faith I find;

The deeper thinkers sneer and smirk,

And give my toil no mind;

From nod and wink

I read they think

That I am fool and blind.

-

My gift to God seems futile, quite;

The world moves as erstwhile;

And powerful Wrong on feeble Right

Tramples in olden style.

My faith burns down,

I see no crown;

But Cares, and Griefs, and Guile.

-

So now, the remedy? Yea, this:

I gently swing the door

Here, of my fane--no soul to wis--

And cross the patterned floor

To the rood-screen

That stands between

The nave and inner chore.

-

The rich red windows
dim the moon,

But little light need I;

I mount the prie-dieu, lately hewn

From woods of rarest dye;

Then from below

My garment, so,

I draw this cord, and tie.

-

One end thereof around the beam

Midway 'twixt Cross and truss:

I noose the nethermost extreme,

And in ten seconds thus

I journey hence--

To that land whence

No rumour reaches us.

-

Well: Here at morn they'll light on one

Dangling in mockery

Of what he spent his substance on

Blindly and uselessly!...

"He might," they'll say,

"Have built, some way,

A cheaper gallows-tree!"