The Mother’s Tragedy

( 97) THE LORD'S DAY HE foolish bells with their discordant clang Summon the harlot-ridden Hell to pray: The vicar’s snout is tuned, the curates bray Long gabbled lessons, and their noisy twang Fills the foul worshippers with hate; the fang Of boredom crushes out the holy day, Where whore and jobber sit and gloom, grown grey For hating of each other; the hours hang. But where cliffs tremble, and the wind and sea Clamour, night thunders from the roaring West; I worship in the storm, and fires flee From my gripped lightnings and my burning crest ; And when my voice rolls, master of the weather, A thousand mighty angels cry together! BRIGHTON, January 1899.