 | Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems |  |
293
SONNET. THE SAME.
Thro' the laced fret-work of each storied paneStreams the rich light, in many-coloured wave,
Upon the tracery of aisle and nave,
Dyeing the marble floors with splendid stain,
And falling on the tombs where rest the brave.
Your walls, “magnifical” with many a fold
Of carved and groinèd oak, and burnished gold,
Are worthy of a consecrated Fane;
And tho' in you there burns no mystic cloud,
No Ark with sacramental treasures proud,
Nor glory visible pervades your dome,
Yet at the call of prayer, He deigns to come
To meet His saints—that Holy One, who says,
“He doth inhabit still His people's praise.”
| Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems | |