 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE CONVENT
Mansion of solitude and gloom!
Dark prison of the soul!
The living's cold and sunless tomb,
Where bigotry's control
Binds down the heart and chills its powers
Of gratitude and love,
And where life's dull and dreary hours
In sullen sameness move.
I feel no reverence while I gaze
Upon its hoary walls:
What, though they speak of other days—
There issue from thy halls
E'en now, a sad, a mournful tone—
'Tis stealing on the air;
The wasting sigh, th' unheeded moan,
Are wildly mingling there.
Dark prison of the soul!
The living's cold and sunless tomb,
Where bigotry's control
Binds down the heart and chills its powers
Of gratitude and love,
And where life's dull and dreary hours
In sullen sameness move.
I feel no reverence while I gaze
Upon its hoary walls:
What, though they speak of other days—
There issue from thy halls
E'en now, a sad, a mournful tone—
'Tis stealing on the air;
The wasting sigh, th' unheeded moan,
Are wildly mingling there.
Oh! man, a spirit to shed
A happy influence round,
To hope, to love, to virtue dead,
These dark abodes have bound.
To be denied the interchange
Of pure affection's spell,
To find all objects cold and strange,
To bid e'en hope farewell.
To render life (which is at best
A sorrowful sojourn)
A vale where nought but shadows rest,
And where the eye can turn
On nought but objects veiled in night,
And horrible as those
Unearthly visions of affright,
Salvator's scenery shows!
A happy influence round,
To hope, to love, to virtue dead,
These dark abodes have bound.
138
Of pure affection's spell,
To find all objects cold and strange,
To bid e'en hope farewell.
To render life (which is at best
A sorrowful sojourn)
A vale where nought but shadows rest,
And where the eye can turn
On nought but objects veiled in night,
And horrible as those
Unearthly visions of affright,
Salvator's scenery shows!
Can this be faith? must all that soothes
Life's stern and rugged way,
All that delights and all that soothes
Our transitory day,
Give place to darkness and despair,
To chilling hopelessness?
Ah, surely no!—True faith should wear
A brighter garb than this—
The flowery plain, the glorious sky,
The stream that wanders free,
The snow-browed mountain, rude and high,
The wild and trackless sea,
Each hath a holier, purer shrine,
To hearts of feeling given—
Each breathes an influence all divine,
A tone that speaks of Heaven.
Life's stern and rugged way,
All that delights and all that soothes
Our transitory day,
Give place to darkness and despair,
To chilling hopelessness?
Ah, surely no!—True faith should wear
A brighter garb than this—
The flowery plain, the glorious sky,
The stream that wanders free,
The snow-browed mountain, rude and high,
The wild and trackless sea,
Each hath a holier, purer shrine,
To hearts of feeling given—
Each breathes an influence all divine,
A tone that speaks of Heaven.
Deeply the organ's notes may roll,
These stately halls among,
The solemn cowl, and sable stole,
May sweep in pride along.
The lifted cross, the taper dim,
The clouds of incense shed,
The altar round,—the funeral hymn,
Low chanted o'er the dead,
May all be here,—But what are they
Compared to nature's shrine?
The empty forms—the vain array,
The ostentatious sign,
Are mockeries all; but those who meet
In thankfulness and love,
With earth's green verdure 'neath their feet,
The tranquil heaven above
Where for the organ's lofty swell,
The sounding breeze is given,
Such, such have felt that earth could tell,
Of purity and heaven.
These stately halls among,
The solemn cowl, and sable stole,
May sweep in pride along.
The lifted cross, the taper dim,
The clouds of incense shed,
The altar round,—the funeral hymn,
Low chanted o'er the dead,
May all be here,—But what are they
Compared to nature's shrine?
The empty forms—the vain array,
The ostentatious sign,
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In thankfulness and love,
With earth's green verdure 'neath their feet,
The tranquil heaven above
Where for the organ's lofty swell,
The sounding breeze is given,
Such, such have felt that earth could tell,
Of purity and heaven.
Haverhill Gazette, July 14, 1827
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |