 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
XXV.
“O rather say,” the holy Abbot cried,As, rapt, the dim and quaking hills he eyed,
“Say rather that—unseen—the Heavenly Hosts
Have on these mountain-summits ta'en their posts,
And now, by turns, are uttering, from each height,
Their gratulations o'er this sacred rite,
Which brings the hundreds their glad eyes behold,
Within their glorious Master's ransomed Fold!
Green Howsden mutters, but the solemn tone
Is not the thunder's, and is not his own!
Nor are these rapid gleams mere lightning! nor
Mere echoes these that come from Newton Torr!
Their gladness now the Lantons loudly tell!
And hark—how loudly answers Yevering Bell!
In every flash, in every peal is given
A sign, a proof, that there is joy in Heaven!”
He ceased. Poor Bertha's tale to me recurred,
And now was sanctioned by the good man's word;
His accents—like the thunder—seemed to roll,
His glances—like the lightning—fired my soul!
And from his lips when those brief words had flowed,
Which dedicate the future life to God,
I stooped—the Glen's pure waters o'er me ran;
And I emerged, my son, a Christened Man!
—I need not tell thee that each warrior brave
At the same time partook the cleansing wave.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |