University of Virginia Library

The golden gates are oped—I see
Bright shapes of Gothic chivalry;
Hear afar weird trumpets blown,
Catch the minstrel's wizard tone,
In lofty words of glad acclaim
Resounding each heroic name,
And I breathe a dim perfume
Of old romances. Grandly loom
Sunned spaces of enchanted land,
With misty peaks on either hand,
Full of dreadful sounds and voices
When the fiend-raised storm rejoices;
Castles and palaces and towers
Of another world than ours,
Such as happy dreamers spy
At sunset in the western sky;
And stretched away, the cliffs between,
Forests dark and meadows green,
Where flowers that medicine lovers' woe,
And herbs of stellar virtue grow;
Magic meres and haunted lakes,
And rivers where a dragon slakes
His hissing thirst; and everywhere
Gallant knights and ladies fair,—
Waving plumes and pawing steeds,
Lovely words and doughty deeds.

Now slow pass before mine eyes
Long pomps and gorgeous pageantries,
With standards royally unrolled,—
Flash of jewels, blaze of gold,
Purple and crimson blazonry;
But o'er the silken sheen I see
Still stern faces of great kings,
And the keen steel music rings
Through the gleaming play of pearls
On the round white arms of girls—
Each, her champion's thronéd queen,
On the tourney gazing keen,
While below, 'mid shivering lances,
Lovers strive for gentle glances.

Then the sunshine waxeth dim,
And a deep sonorous hymn
Peals through a cathedral's aisles,
Where the Virgin-Mother smiles
Placidly on the blessed Babe;
And, each cross-legged on his slab,
Lie the calm cold effigies;
And on quaint-wrought traceries,
Pillared niche, and blazoned wall,
Rich melodies of colour fall
From the splendours of the pane
Where crownéd saints and martyrs reign
In sacred pomp and high romance;
And cowering devils peep askance
From carven phantasies of stone;
And long candle-flames are blown
Flaringly by the balm-sick air,
Which makes the banners pendant there,
Faded memories of the brave,
Warm with perfume as they wave,
While the censer smokes and swings;
And a mystic sweetness clings
To robes of prostrate worshippers,
Prince and peasant; and none stirs,
For the Host is held on high;
But round the hallowed place a sigh
Of dumb adoration steals.
Low before the altar kneels
A mailed and purpled Emperor;
All the thunderbolts of war
Vailed—a shadowy pretence,
Before the Church's dread magnificence.