Timbered in times when men built strong,
With a tower of wood grown gray,
The frame of it old, the heart still young,
It has stood for many a day.

Winter and summer its bells ring out,
Jangle and clang and churn,
Music set for a merry rout,
With strains of a sweet nocturne.

The citadel glacis, smooth and steep,
And the granite fort on high
With its dangerous moat that none may leap,
And the rambling barracks nigh,

Seem as if made to serve its need,
To watch at its gates like friends,
As if barrack and moat, and church and creed
Pursued the same great ends.

Tablets cover its ancient walls
To men of virtues rare,
And hatchments as in English halls,
In gules and gold, are there,

And the same great throngs go in and out
As have gone a hundred years,
Gentle and simple—dark with doubt,
Oppressed by saintly fears,

Or with pride so pent in their narrow souls
That they have no power to see
That the favour of God to the meek is lent,
Though mean their lot may be.

What thrilling tales the church might tell,
What welcome sights reveal,
If a wizard's word could break the spell
That now its lips enseal,

It would picture the days when Breynton stood
At the top of its pulpit stair,
Gentle and generous, brave and good,
A stalwart man of prayer,

It would tell of the Tories from Boston Bay
Who camped its walls beside,
Or flew to its friendly arms to pray
At morn or eventide,

Of women for fashion's sake who came
To its portals dark, in chairs,
Of ponderous men with transient fame
Who patronized its prayers,

Of the Loyalist Wentworth as he made
Response to the service free,
Of Lady Frances in silk arrayed,
And their heir, young Charles-Mary,

Of soldier-governors proud, niched high
In the walls of English fame,
Who voiced in its shade the human cry:
“Forgive, O Lord, my shame!”

It would point to the names of those that rest
'Neath chancel and aisle and pew,
De Seitz with the orange on his breast,
And Greville Montagu,

Of privileged councillors, judges grave,
And men of towering trust,
And British soldiers, staunch and brave,
All turned to powdered dust.

It would tell of the happy unions sealed
Within the hallowed fane,
Of the widowed souls that here have reeled,
'Neath staggering loads of pain;

Of wraiths that have risen of sins long past
As people tried to pray,
Of light that has shone from heaven at last
And shamed the shades away.

Word of a wizard to break the spell
That lies, old church, on thee,
To open thy lips and bid thee tell
Thy treasured thoughts to me—

I never pass through thy portals kind,
When here my feet have chanced,
That silvery tongues do not unbind
And hold me long entranced.

Timbered in times when men built strong,
Thy tower of wood grown gray,
The frame of thee old, the heart still young,
Dear church, for many a day,

Winter and summer, thy bells aloud
Shall jangle and clang and churn,
And men in thy shadow, meek or proud,
The way of heaven shall learn.