 | The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq |  |
59
DESCRIPTION OF A CHURCH.
As late beneath the hallow'd roof I trod,
Where saints in holy rapture seek their God;
Where heart stung sinners suing Heav'n for grace,
With tears repentant consecrate the place.
Oh! how my soul was struck with what I saw,
And shrunk within me in religious awe:
Where saints in holy rapture seek their God;
Where heart stung sinners suing Heav'n for grace,
With tears repentant consecrate the place.
Oh! how my soul was struck with what I saw,
And shrunk within me in religious awe:
The massy walls, which seem'd to scorn the rage
Of battering tempest and of mouldering age;
In long perspective stretch'd, till breadth and height
Were almost lost in distance from the sight;
With monumental decorations hung,
They spoke mortality with silent tongue.
There, sorrowing seraphs heav'nward lift their eyes,
And little cherubs weep soft elegies.
I trod—and started at the mighty noise;
The hollow pavement lifted up its voice;
The swelling arch receiv'd the rising sound,
Responsive to the stroke the walls around,
And sent it murm'ring to the the vaults around,
Thro' lengthen'd aisles prolong'd the solemn sound.
Of battering tempest and of mouldering age;
In long perspective stretch'd, till breadth and height
Were almost lost in distance from the sight;
With monumental decorations hung,
They spoke mortality with silent tongue.
There, sorrowing seraphs heav'nward lift their eyes,
And little cherubs weep soft elegies.
I trod—and started at the mighty noise;
The hollow pavement lifted up its voice;
The swelling arch receiv'd the rising sound,
Responsive to the stroke the walls around,
And sent it murm'ring to the the vaults around,
Thro' lengthen'd aisles prolong'd the solemn sound.
Far in the west, and noble to the sight,
The gilded organ rears its tow'ring height:
And hark! methinks I from its bosom hear,
Soft issuing sounds that steal upon the ear
And float serenely on the liquid air.
Now by degrees more bold and broad they grow,
And riot loosely thro' the isles below;
'Till the full organ lifts its utmost voice,
And my heart shudders at the powerful noise:
Like the last trump, one note is heard to sound
That all the massy pillars tremble round:
The firm fixt building shivers on its base,
And vast vibration fills th' astonish'd place:
The marble pavements seem to feel their doom,
And the bones rattle in each hollow tomb.
The gilded organ rears its tow'ring height:
60
Soft issuing sounds that steal upon the ear
And float serenely on the liquid air.
Now by degrees more bold and broad they grow,
And riot loosely thro' the isles below;
'Till the full organ lifts its utmost voice,
And my heart shudders at the powerful noise:
Like the last trump, one note is heard to sound
That all the massy pillars tremble round:
The firm fixt building shivers on its base,
And vast vibration fills th' astonish'd place:
The marble pavements seem to feel their doom,
And the bones rattle in each hollow tomb.
But now the blast harmonious dies away,
And tapers gently in a fine decay:
The melting sounds on higher pinions fly,
And seem to fall soft oozing from on high;
Like evening dew they gently spread around
And shed the sweetness of heart-thrilling sound;
'Till grown too soft, too fine for mortal ear,
The dying strains dissolve in distant air.
Methought I heard a flight angels rise,
Most sweetly chaunting as they gain'd the skies:
Methought I heard their less'ning sound decay
And fade and melt and vanish quite away.
And tapers gently in a fine decay:
The melting sounds on higher pinions fly,
And seem to fall soft oozing from on high;
Like evening dew they gently spread around
And shed the sweetness of heart-thrilling sound;
'Till grown too soft, too fine for mortal ear,
The dying strains dissolve in distant air.
Methought I heard a flight angels rise,
Most sweetly chaunting as they gain'd the skies:
Methought I heard their less'ning sound decay
And fade and melt and vanish quite away.
Hail heav'n born music! by thy pow'r we raise
Th' uplifted soul to acts of highest praise:
Oh! I would die with music melting round,
And float to bliss upon a sea of sound.
Th' uplifted soul to acts of highest praise:
Oh! I would die with music melting round,
And float to bliss upon a sea of sound.
| The miscellaneous essays and occasional writings of Francis Hopkinson, Esq | |