To a Sanguine Friend

I cannot live on dreams my whole life long,
I cannot gaze on ruined arch, and aisle,
And altar desolate, — and then beguile
My weary soul with some old loyal song,
Or tale of English honor. 'Tis not year;
Have chilled my blood or made my spirit cold,
But ancient books, kindling new hopes and fears,
The awful features of the Church unfold.
Yet, when in this dear land sad hearts behold
That Church alone at her deserted prayers
Amid her empty niches, unawares
Old truths revive and coward men grow bold;
And shall my heart give way, while thou art by,
Thine own meek self our surest prophecy?