A Voice From The Old Church Tower. Poem by William Billington

WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF ITS PROPOSED DEMOLITION
BY THE CHURCHWARDENS, JUNE 2ND, 1857.

I, WHO have stood unharmed through one long week
Of centuries, whilst wrestling with my foe,
Have ever borne the belt from old King Time,
And though he still the victory doth seek,
As yet he hath not won one single throw;
Though gray in years, the greenness of my youth
Throbs in my veins, the vigour of my prime
I still retain, to mock the chafing years;
While on my furrowed front the gloomy growth
Of crusting ages calmly sits, who fears
That I shall ever fall? Though Flood and Fire,
Whirlwind and Thunder all their wrath should blend,
To compass my swift overthrow conspire,
I still might stand, did not my keepers seek my end!

Then let them bear the burden of my curse,
Albeit they be unworthy of one's hate;
And, should my guardians disregard this verse,
Then may the curse of all who venerate
The 'pictured past,' revere Antiquity,
Prize History, or love their native town,
As ivy clingeth to a rotting tree,
Cling to their quickly-fading memory,
If ever with iconoclastic zeal
Their Vandal-hands my shrine shall desecrate;
And should my owners bring destruction down
On my time-honoured, ruin-wreathëd crown,
As flame eats flag, as rust devoureth steel,
May they be made Oblivion's swiftest, sweetest meal!