In twilight depths away. - Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee. Lo! the blessed cross!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

A DIM and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!-the very light
Streams with a coloring of heroic days

In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years;—and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-
The tenderest image of mortality —
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves-all these things
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,

On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love!
Honor be with the dead! The people kneel

Under the helms of antique chivalry,

And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,
And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved,
Of warriors on their tombs.-The people kneel
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd crowns
On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set;
Where the high anthems of old victories

Have made the dust give echoes.-Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away. Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee.-Lo! the blessed cross!

High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!

And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,

Gather'd before their God! - Hark! how the flood Of the rich organ harmony bears up

Their voice on its high waves ! a mighty burst! A forest-sounding music!every tone

Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings

From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:

And the old minster ·

forest-like itself

With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,

Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not

One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes. Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.

Rise like an altar-fire!
In solemn joy aspire,

Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind

Bear up from human kind

Thanks and implorings — be they not in vain!

Father, which art on high!

Weak is the melody

Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,

Winging the words of prayer,

With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.