Poem by William Makepeace Thackeray

At the Church-Gate

Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot,
Ofttimes I hover,
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster-bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster-bell,
The organ 'gins to swell, —
She's coming, — coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast,
And hastening hither,
With modest eyes downcast;
She comes, — she's here, — she's past;
May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint,
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer,
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.

1. Damages, Two Hundred Pounds
2. Mr. Molony’s Account of the Ball
3. Ronsard to His Mistress
4. Gebtleman of the Footguards (Blue)
5. From Pocahontas

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