 | The poetical works of Samuel Rogers |  |
INSCRIBED ON THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.
Unclasp me, Stranger; and unfold,
With trembling care, my leaves of gold,
Rich in Gothic portraiture—
If yet, alas, a leaf endure.
With trembling care, my leaves of gold,
Rich in Gothic portraiture—
If yet, alas, a leaf endure.
In Rábida's monastic fane
I cannot ask, and ask in vain.
The language of Castile I speak;
Mid many an Arab, many a Greek,
Old in the days of Charlemain;
When minstrel-music wandered round,
And Science, waking, blessed the sound.
I cannot ask, and ask in vain.
55
Mid many an Arab, many a Greek,
Old in the days of Charlemain;
When minstrel-music wandered round,
And Science, waking, blessed the sound.
No earthly thought has here a place,
The cowl let down on every face;
Yet here, in consecrated dust,
Here would I sleep, if sleep I must.
From Genoa when Columbus came,
(At once her glory and her shame)
'Twas here he caught the holy flame.
'Twas here the generous vow he made;
His banners on the altar laid.
The cowl let down on every face;
Yet here, in consecrated dust,
Here would I sleep, if sleep I must.
From Genoa when Columbus came,
(At once her glory and her shame)
'Twas here he caught the holy flame.
'Twas here the generous vow he made;
His banners on the altar laid.
Here, tempest-worn and desolate,
A Pilot, journeying thro' the wild,
Stopt to solicit at the gate
A pittance for his child.
'Twas here, unknowing and unknown,
He stood upon the threshold-stone.
But hope was his—a faith sublime,
That triumphs over place and time;
And here, his mighty labour done,
And his course of glory run,
Awhile as more than man he stood,
So large the debt of gratitude!
A Pilot, journeying thro' the wild,
Stopt to solicit at the gate
A pittance for his child.
'Twas here, unknowing and unknown,
He stood upon the threshold-stone.
But hope was his—a faith sublime,
That triumphs over place and time;
And here, his mighty labour done,
56
Awhile as more than man he stood,
So large the debt of gratitude!
One hallowed morn, methought, I felt
As if a soul within me dwelt!
But who arose and gave to me
The sacred trust I keep for thee,
And in his cell at even-tide
Knelt before the cross and died—
Inquire not now. His name no more
Glimmers on the chancel-floor,
Near the lights that ever shine
Before St. Mary's blessed shrine.
As if a soul within me dwelt!
But who arose and gave to me
The sacred trust I keep for thee,
And in his cell at even-tide
Knelt before the cross and died—
Inquire not now. His name no more
Glimmers on the chancel-floor,
Near the lights that ever shine
Before St. Mary's blessed shrine.
To me one little hour devote,
And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee;
Read in the temper that he wrote,
And may his gentle spirit guide thee!
My leaves forsake me, one by one;
The book-worm thro' and thro' has gone.
Oh haste—unclasp me, and unfold;
The tale within was never told!
And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee;
Read in the temper that he wrote,
And may his gentle spirit guide thee!
My leaves forsake me, one by one;
The book-worm thro' and thro' has gone.
Oh haste—unclasp me, and unfold;
The tale within was never told!
| The poetical works of Samuel Rogers | |