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 | The sentence of Kaires and other poems |  |
But hark! with thrilling cadence still and deep,
Flung o'er the city drowned in careless sleep,
Tolls forth the summons of the midnight hour,
Waking the echoes of yon southern tower.
In vain, alas! in vain those heavenly tones,—
Midnight hath here no midnight orisons!
No more in accents of seraphic fire
Rings the blest ritual through the tapered choir,
Whose far-off music in the stilly night,
Charming from thought unblest each wandering sprite,
Might haply blend, like Fancy's pensive gleams,
With some young sleeper's solitary dreams;—
'Tis so no more; unsung the midnight mass,
Or feast or fast alike unheeded pass
By those who sleep their vigil nights away,
Nor fear the breaking of the judgment-day.
Flung o'er the city drowned in careless sleep,
Tolls forth the summons of the midnight hour,
Waking the echoes of yon southern tower.
In vain, alas! in vain those heavenly tones,—
Midnight hath here no midnight orisons!
No more in accents of seraphic fire
Rings the blest ritual through the tapered choir,
Whose far-off music in the stilly night,
Charming from thought unblest each wandering sprite,
Might haply blend, like Fancy's pensive gleams,
With some young sleeper's solitary dreams;—
'Tis so no more; unsung the midnight mass,
Or feast or fast alike unheeded pass
By those who sleep their vigil nights away,
Nor fear the breaking of the judgment-day.
“Peace, murmurer,” (thus with sweetly stern controul
Some angel-voice might lull the troubled soul,)
“Peace, thankless dreamer; say, art thou so pure,
Canst thou alone not patiently endure
To lean undoubting on thy mother's breast,
Where holiest, saintliest sons have sunk to rest?
For her could martyred Charles a crown forego,
Laud on the scaffold bend his mitred brow,
And still it burns unquenched, the martyrs' zeal,—
The full seven thousand at her altars kneel;—
Yea, rather, when the flood of sacred song
Rolls in full tide yon echoing aisles along,
In meekness kneel, for thine own errors grieve,
Unmeet the smallest blessing to receive,
Learn that e'en here no niggard boon is given,
More than enough to guide thy steps to heaven.”
Some angel-voice might lull the troubled soul,)
118
Canst thou alone not patiently endure
To lean undoubting on thy mother's breast,
Where holiest, saintliest sons have sunk to rest?
For her could martyred Charles a crown forego,
Laud on the scaffold bend his mitred brow,
And still it burns unquenched, the martyrs' zeal,—
The full seven thousand at her altars kneel;—
Yea, rather, when the flood of sacred song
Rolls in full tide yon echoing aisles along,
In meekness kneel, for thine own errors grieve,
Unmeet the smallest blessing to receive,
Learn that e'en here no niggard boon is given,
More than enough to guide thy steps to heaven.”
| The sentence of Kaires and other poems | |