Cathedral Hymn.
“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.”
Wordsworth.
A dim and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past! The very light
Streams with a colouring 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!
Honour 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 humankind
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.
Let, then, thy Spirit brood
Over the multitude—
Be thou amidst them, thro’ that heavenly Guest!
So shall their cry have power
To win from thee a shower
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,
Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,
All their dark waters lie
To thee reveal’d, in each close bosom-cell.
The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head
From the world’s glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond, aching love,
Thy minister to move
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony
In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
Yes! here before thy throne
Many—yet each alone—
To thee that terrible unveiling make:
And still, small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.
How dreadful is this place!
The glory of thy face
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight.
Where shall the guilty flee?
Over what far-off sea?
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?
Not to the cedar-shade
Let his vain flight be made;
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the Cross, can yield
The hope—the stay—the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to thee!
Be thou, be thou his aid!
Oh, let thy love pervade
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!
There let the living stone
Be cleft—the seed be sown—
The song of fountains from the silence brought!
So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore
Thine own first image—Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill’d
With hues of heaven, instill’d
Down to the depths of its calm purity.
And if, amidst the throng
Link’d by the ascending song,
There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power
Of joy, man’s early dower,
Thus, e’en midst tears, can fervently adore!
Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal praise be thine,
Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,
And let the tombs reply!
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.