The Cathedral, or the Catholic and Apostolic Church in England ::

Where Angels once, like its own mountain band,
Stood round Jerusalem; thro' that blest realm
Scarce doth a sacred track unharm'd remain,
At Nazareth's lone hill-side, or silent lake,
(Dear lake, dear hills, where Thy blest eyes repos'd!)
But in the living page thy steps abide,
Fresh as of yesterday. Faith lights her lamp,
And rising thence she sees Thee all around:
She walks the earth, in amice of the morn,
And wheresoever the need of human woe
Varies its shape, she finds Thee standing nigh,
And burns to follow. Oft Thy presence lies
Hidden in busy scenes, but as they pass,
The parting step reveals Thy form Divine,
And gentle dealings: as we backward bear
The thoughtful eye, we see in vision clear,
And lost occasions mourn. Oh, that we thence
Might gain th'enduring sense of Thy deep love,
How in that light would things terrestrial wear
Celestial colourings, that we no more
Should droop, or in Thy Presence feel alone!

Thy guiding hand a little further on!
As when, amid her azure palaces,
Mounts in her solemn state the Queen of night,
Her airy pathway holds the floating web,
Shook from her brow the silver clouds among:

136

So doth Thy solemn memory here remain.
Not now beheld at Abraham's friendly door,
In flaming bush, or Gideon's threshing floor,
As man with man, or wrapt with Angel wings;
Not now beside the Galilean shore;
But where the widow'd mother walks bereav'd,
Where Poverty and Blindness by the way,
Where Innocence sits at the festal board,
Or listening Penitence hangs down to mourn.

Lend me thy light a little further on!
Henceforth the Church is as the living shrine,
Wherein the Angel of Thy presence dwells,
About Thee thrown like an illumin'd cloud.
She hand in hand with morning issues forth,
And daily traversing the peopled globe
Kindles mute forms, in which her Spirit dwells,
Circling the earth with her celestial day,
As with a radiant zone, while from her steps
Night flies; she on her path continuous wakes
Her ancient prayers, and David's chaunt of praise,
From Ganges' bank to these cold Western isles.

Nor only thus, but veil'd in silvery mist
With each she springs from the Baptismal fount,
And half disclosing her celestial brow,
She lends herself companion of the way,
Seizing the trembler's hand, and seeing things

137

He sees not, forward leads him thro' the night,
And tries him oft in crooked and dark ways,
Of discipline, and penitential love,
Till with her secrets she can trust his soul.

University of Virginia Library

X.