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VII.

Thus rising, like a living mine,
From quarries of the Word divine,
The Apostolic symbol stands,
Moulded of old by saintly hands.
Within, o'ershadowing holy things,
Love stretches her cherubic wings.
Wind and rain they have no power,
To impair this heaven-built tower;
Time, that beats down earthly things
With his “multitudinous wings,”
Serves but to strengthen and disclose
This temple in its dread repose.
Thus from a world of stern reproof,
From storm and wind which fitful go,
And shake each hope-built tower below,
We flee to an embowering roof,
Thence see the shower—the shade—the sun,
O'er all without their courses run.

158

Oft mid the throng of spirits rude
We seem in friendless solitude,
And seek in vain some holding hand;—
But entering on that holy ground,
The veil is rais'd,—the mountains stand
With fiery coursers girt, and fiery cars around.