London Churches

I STOOD, one Sunday morning,

Before a large church door,

The congregation gathered

And carriages a score, --

From one out stepped a lady

I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a prayer-book,

And held a vinaigrette;

The sign of man's redemption

Clear on the book was set, --

But above the Cross there glistened

A golden Coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle

The inner door flung wide,

Lightly, as up a ball-room,

Her footsteps seemed to glide, --

There might be good thoughts in her

For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman

Peeped wistfully within,

On whose wan face was graven

Life's hardest discipline, --

The trace of the sad trinity

Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded

Where she could rest and pray;

With her worn garb contrasted

Each side in fair array, --

"God's house holds no poor sinners,"

She sighed, and crept away.

Richard Monckton Milnes

Index to poems in the collection by Richard Monckton Milnes