I.

The days of old were days of might
In forms of greatness moulded,
And flowers of Heaven grew on the earth
Within the Church unfolded:
For grace fell fast as summer dew,
And saints to giant stature grew.

II.

But one by one the gifts are gone
That in the world abounded,
When it within the Church's walls
Was willingly surrounded;
And weary nations scarce can bide
The thrall of power unsanctified.

III.

A blight hath passed upon the world,
Her summer hath departed,
The chill of age is on her sons,
The cold and fearful-hearted;
And sad, amid neglect and scorn,
Our Mother sits and weeps forlorn.

IV.

Narrow and narrower still each year
The holy circle groweth,
And what the end of all shall be
Nor man nor Angel knoweth:
And so we wait and watch in fear; —
It may be that the Lord is near!