AFTER THE CROWD HAD DEPARTED.
THANKS for the lessons of this Spot-fit school For the presumptuous thoughts that would assign Mechanic laws to agency divine;
And, measuring heaven by earth, would overrule Infinite Power. The pillared vestibule, Expanding yet precise, the roof embowed, Might seem designed to humble man, when proud Of his best workmanship by plan and tool. Down-bearing with his whole Atlantic weight Of tide and tempest on the Structure's base, And flashing to that Structure's topmost height, Ocean has proved its strength, and of its grace In calms is conscious, finding for his freight Of softest music some responsive place.
YE shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot,
Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot, Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames,
And, by your mien and bearing, knew your names; And they could hear his ghostly song who trod Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load,
While he struck his desolate harp without hopes or aims Vanished ye are, but subject to recal;
Why keep we else the instincts whose dread law Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they saw, Not by black arts but magic natural!
If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief,
Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a Chief.
FLOWERS ON THE TOP OF THE PILLARS AT THE ENTRANCE OF THE CAVE.
HOPE smiled when your nativity was cast,
Children of Summer! Ye fresh Flowers that brave What Summer here escapes not, the fierce wave, And whole artillery of the western blast, Battering the Temple's front, its long-drawn nave Smiting, as if each moment were their last. But ye, bright Flowers, on frieze and architrave Survive, and once again the Pile stands fast: Calm as the Universe, from specular towers Of heaven contemplated by Spirits pure With mute astonishment, it stands sustained Through every part in symmetry, to endure, Unhurt, the assault of Time with all his hours, As the supreme Artificer ordained.
ON to Iona!-What can she afford
To us save matter for a thoughtful sigh, Heaved over ruin with stability
In urgent contrast? To diffuse the WORD (Thy Paramount, mighty Nature! and Time's Lord) Her Temples rose, 'mid pagan gloom; but why, Even for a moment, has our verse deplored Their wrongs, since they fulfilled their destiny? And when, subjected to a common doom Of mutability, those far-famed Piles Shall disappear from both the sister Isles, Iona's Saints, forgetting not past days, Garlands shall wear of amaranthine bloom, While heaven's vast sea of voices chants their praise.
How sad a welcome! To each voyager Some ragged child holds up for sale a store Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore Where once came monk and nun with gentle stir,
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer. Yet is yon neat trim church a grateful speck Of novelty amid the sacred wreck
Strewn far and wide. Think, proud Philosopher! Fallen though she be, this Glory of the west, Still on her sons, the beams of mercy shine; And hopes, perhaps more heavenly bright than thine, A grace by thee unsought and unpossest,
A faith more fixed, a rapture more divine, Shall gild their passage to eternal rest.'
THE BLACK STONES OF IONA.
[See Martin's Voyage among the Western Isles.]
HERE on their knees men swore: the stones were black, Black in the people's minds and words, yet they Were at that time, as now, in colour grey. But what is colour, if upon the rack
Of conscience souls are placed by deeds that lack Concord with oaths? What differ night and day Then, when before the Perjured on his way. Hell opens, and the heavens in vengeance crack Above his head uplifted in vain prayer To Saint, or Fiend, or to the Godhead whom He had insulted-Peasant, King, or Thane ? Fly where the culprit may, guilt meets a doom; And, from invisible worlds at need laid bare, Come links for social order's awful chain.
HOMEWARD we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell, Where Christian piety's soul-cheering spark (Kindled from Heaven between the light and dark Of time) shone like the morning-star, farewell!- And fare thee well, to Fancy visible,
Remote St. Kilda, lone and loved sea-mark For many a voyage made in her swift bark, When with more hues than in the rainbow dwell Thou a mysterious intercourse dost hold, Extracting from clear skies and air serene, And out of sun-bright waves, a lucid veil,
That thickens, spreads, and, mingling fold with fold, Makes known, when thou no longer canst be seen, Thy whereabout, to warn the approaching sail.
Per me si va nella Città dolente.
We have not passed into a doleful City, We who were led to-day down a grim dell, By some too boldly named 'the Jaws of Hell:' Where be the wretched ones, the sights for pity? These crowded streets resound no plaintive ditty: As from the hive where bees in summer dwell, Sorrow seems here excluded; and that knell, It neither damps the gay, nor checks the witty.
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