Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart, The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led, - Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. Notes could we hear as of a faery shell Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught; Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, Till, in the bosom of our rustic Cell, We by a lamentable change were taught That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide": How nearly joy and sorrow are allied! For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow, For us the voice of melody was mute. - But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow It soothed us, it beguiled us, then, to hear High over hill and low adown the dell Again we wandered, willing to partake All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake. Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please, Aloft ascending, and descending deep, Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees Of the sharp winds; -fair Creatures! -to whom Heaven What would they there? - full fifty years That sumptuous Pile, with all its Peers, Too harshly hath been doomed to taste The bitterness of wrong and waste: Its courts are ravaged; but the tower Is standing with a voice of power, That ancient voice which wont to call To mass or some high festival; And in the shattered fabric's heart Remaineth one protected part; A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest, Closely embowered and trimly drest; And thither young and old repair, This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. - Fast the churchyard fills;-anon, A moment ends the fervent din, Recites the holy liturgy, The only voice which you can hear Is the river murmuring near. When soft! - the dusky trees between, And down the path through the open green, Where is no living thing to be seen, And through yon gateway, where is found, Beneath the arch with ivy bound, Free entrance to the churchyard ground, Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, Comes gliding in serene and slow, Soft and silent as a dream, A solitary Doe ! White she is as lily of June, And beauteous as the silver Moon When out of sight the clouds are driven Or like a ship some gentle day A glittering ship, that hath the plain Lie silent in your graves, ye dead! 'Tis a work for Sabbath hours |