MINE ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd, When each pale brow to dread hosannas bowed While clouds of incense mounting veiled the rood, That glimmered like a pine-tree dimly viewed Through Alpine vapors. Such appalling rite Our Church prepares not, trusting to the might Of simple truth with grace divine imbued; Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross, Like men ashamed: the Sun with his first smile Shall greet that symbol crowning the low Pile: And the fresh air of incense-breathing morn Shall wooingly embrace it; and green moss Creep round its arms through centuries unborn.
THE encircling ground, in native turf arrayed, Is now by solemn consecration given
To social interests, and to favoring 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 splendors 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 plannedAlbeit laboring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholars only
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 dwells Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 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,
In the soft checkerings 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!
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 noontide? 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,
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