Death at the Door

Death at the Door

Crouching on the marble steps

That led into a house of prayer.

Sat a girl with face half hidden

'Neath a veil of tangled hair,

Looking like a fallen angel,

Come to find a shelter there.

Loudly blew the winds around her,

Coldly fell the heartless rain;

Quickly flew the feet bound homeward—

No one saw poor houseless Jane;

No one 'neath his woolen garments,

Felt the blast that gave her pain.

Open wide, great church, your portals—

For this stranger open wide;

Cold and wet she kneels before you,

Let her neath your archs glide—

Let her, in your lonely chancel,

Safely from the tempest hide.

See, she shudders, growing paler

With each colder, keener blast,

Like a lily, late in autumn,

By the careless gardener past—

Past, and left to be by whirlwinds

On the cold earth rudely cast.

Six long days hast thou been bolted,

Sheltering only dust and gloom,

Giving to thy dumb, dead cushions

Sumptuous seats and ample room;

Whilst for poor and homeless strangers,

Sinless, stainless, waits the tomb!

Wealthy men have poured upon you

Golden showers, that you might rise,

Carrying up your fretted columns,

Babel-like, to meet the skies,

Filling dome and towering b[?]y

With the tumult of their cries.

Save us, Lord! we've sinned against thee!

Give us room in Heaven to dwell;

Look how much we've done to praise Thee,

Hear our loud-toned Sabbath-bell—

Louder than all other churches

Doth its Christian music swell!

Soft she sleeps, poor child—how quiet—

The wind is sighing—now it shrieks—

The night grows dark, the dim-lit lantern

In its rusty socket creaks,

While a poor and weakly woman

To the gentle sleeper speaks.

'Tis too late—the words, though loving,

Cannot touch the sacred dead;

Bear her gently, ere the morning

Brings the pious ones to tread

O'er the marble, where the dying

Stranger made her painful bed.

Wrap her closely in the flimsy

Rags that hang about her form;

Grandly sounds the dirge that sweepeth

Through the arches of the storm,

Bravely rings the bell that screameth

On the opening Sabbath morn.

Fluttering silks and dainty laces,

Perfumed robes and costly fur,

Whispering lovers, sparkling jewels,

Belles and beaux are all astir,

And the pastor in the pulpit,

Prays that man may never err.

Unattributed

1:37, p. 1

3.31.1860