THE encircling ground, in native turf arrayed, Is now by solemn consecration given
To social interests, and to favouring Heaven; And where the rugged colts their gambols played, And wild deer bounded through the forest glade, Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw driven, Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even; And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's spade Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small, But infinite its grasp of weal and woe!
Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flow;- The spousal trembling, and the 'dust to dust,' The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust That to the Almighty Father looks through all.
OPEN your gates, ye everlasting Piles!
Types of the spiritual Church which God hath reared; Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward
And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles
To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles, Or down the nave to pace in motion slow; Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow And mount, at every step, with living wiles Instinct to rouse the heart and lead the will By a bright ladder to the world above. Open your gates, ye Monuments of love
Divine! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill! Thou, stately York! and Ye, whose splendours cheer Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear!
INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.
TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned- Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white robed Scholars only-this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more;
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dweils Lingering and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proot That they were born for immortality.
WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite,
Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night!- But, from the arms of silence-list! O list! The music bursteth into second life;
The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife; Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!
THEY dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here; Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam;
Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread As now, when She hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.
GLORY to God! and to the Power who came In filial duty, clothed with love divine, That made his human tabernacle shine Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame; Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name From roseate hues, far kenned at morn and even, In hours of peace, or when the storm is driven Along the nether region's rugged frame! Earth prompts-Heaven urges; let us seek the light, Studious of that pure intercourse begun
When first our infant brows their lustre won; So, like the Mountain, may we grow more bright From unimpeded commerce with the Sun, At the approach of all-involving night.
WHY sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored, Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold His drowsy rings. Look forth!-that Stream behold, THAT STREAM Upon whose bosom we have passed Floating at ease while nations have effaced Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold Long lines of mighty Kings-look forth, my Soul! (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) The living Waters, less and less by guilt Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, Till they have reached the eternal City-built For the perfected Spirits of the just!
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