That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise
From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still!
THE MONUMENT COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND HER DAUGHTERS, NEAR THE
A WEIGHT of awe, not easy to be borne,
Fell suddenly upon my Spirit - cast
From the dread bosom of the unknown past,
When first I saw that family forlorn.
Speak Thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn The power of years — pre-eminent, and placed Apart, to overlook the circle vast
Speak, Giant-mother! tell it to the Morn
While she dispels the cumbrous shades of Night; Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud; At whose behest uprose on British ground That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite The inviolable God, that tames the proud!
LANCE, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book,
Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, The war-worn Chieftain quits the world His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell
In soft repose he comes: within his cell, Round the decaying trunk of human pride, At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, Do penitential cogitations cling;
Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine In grisly folds and strictures serpentine; Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring, For recompence — their own perennial bower.
METHINKS that to some vacant hermitage
My feet would rather turn
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage, Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage In the soft heaven of a translucent pool; Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool, Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, A maple dish, my furniture should be;
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl From thorp or vill his matins sound for me,
Tired of the world and all its industry.
CONTENT with calmer scenes around us spread And humbler objects, give we to a day
Of annual joy one tributary lay;
This day, when, forth by rustic music led, The village Children, while the sky is red
With evening lights, advance in long array Through the still churchyard, each with garland gay, That, carried sceptre-like, o'ertops the head Of the proud Bearer. To the wide church-door, Charged with these offerings which their fathers bore For decoration in the Papal time,
The innocent procession softly moves : The spirit of Laud is pleased in heaven's pure clime, And Hooker's voice the spectacle approves !
FROM low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
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 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, 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.
A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE. WHERE holy ground begins, unhallowed ends, Is marked by no distinguishable line; The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends, Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, And neighbours rest together, here confound Their several features, mingled like the sound
Of many waters, or as evening blends
With shady night. Soft airs from shrub and flower, Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave; And while those lofty poplars gently wave
Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky Bright as the glimpses of eternity,
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
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