The Church shone brightly in her youthful days

Ere the world on her smiled;

So now, an outcast, she would pour her rays

Keen, free, and undefiled:

Yet would I not that arm of force were mine,

Which thrusts her from her awful ancient shrine.

'Twas duty bound each convert-king to rear

His Mother from the dust,

And pious was it to enrich, nor fear

CHRIST for the rest to trust;

And who shall dare make common or unclean

What once has on the Holy Altar been?

Dear brothers! -- hence, while ye for ill prepare,

Triumph is still your own;

Blest is a pilgrim Church! -- yet shrink to share

The curse of throwing down.

So will we toil in our old place to stand,

Watching, not dreading, the despoiler's hand.