University of Virginia Library

How the Soul breathes itself away to Heaven
'Midst these all Heavenly Grandeurs—rent and riven
Seem Earth's weak ties—each thought becomes a soul!
A Soul of fire!—the Mind's winged glances roll
Through the far Future—while the silence grows
To an unbounded Harmony—whose close
Is but where Life's deep tides, o'erflowing, spread
Almost too near the Eternal Fountain head!
And bound in reverential awe remain,
Though there continueth too the harmonious strain!
But oh! so deepened—so enriched—that none
Of earthly mould might bear the o'erpowering tone
The music of the Heaven of Heavens—that ring
While Angels strike the harp, while Seraphs sing—
While thundering spheres their full-pealed anthem join,
And, oh! while wakes a something more divine!—
A breath of Harmony's great Source and Spring,
Which poured its Soul through each existent thing;
(That breath which bade Creation's fulness be,
Whose echo was—Eternal Melody.)
The music of the Wisdom of the Power,
Which streams through Heaven's bright, fixed, unshadowed hour,
However the Enthusiast of the Earth advance
From height to height—in ever-mounting trance,
No moment and no mood can e'er ally,
With the mixed Music of Humanity!
Though to our bounded sense and clouded dream
Most perfect—most victorious and supreme—
Most overpow'ring and profound, it seem
In some fine temper of the soul—to swell
As though the Host of Heaven then struck the shell,
Woke the fine chords, and thrilled the conscious frame—
And from the Skies the unbroken echoes came!
Still—still—midst all the triumphs it may own,
There lurks the human breath—the mortal tone;
Even our Religion savours of the Earth,
And bears too much the stamp of our dim birth,
Our highest flights are checked, and weak, and low,
Shallow our streams of thought in fullest flow;
Our noblest bursts of truth, and zeal, and love,
Dashed with some worldly care, too oft must prove
Our finest strains of feeling yet are jarred
By some false chord, through which the whole is marred.

The solemn calm that fills these Precincts seems
To melt the mind into a world of Dreams!
While—speechless—breathless—onwards I advance,
Now some light sound hath caught my ear—by chance;
Hark! how the faint low echoes dull and dumb,
As though from Silence's own hushed depths they had come,
Steal on the sense—vague, indistinct, and low;
Steal on—how soft—and die away—how slow!
And make the very stillness seem more still,
So faintly floating at their own weak will,
'Mongst these enlaced and sculpture-wreathed arcades,
Proud as some unpruned forest's giant shades,
Methinks they seem as though to escape they tried,
And sigh their last on Nature's bosom wide;
In vain—fenced in and closed on every side.
At strange, strange distance now appeareth all
That we the Actual and the Real call!
Betwixt us and the glowing, breathing world,
Eternity is in a moment hurled!
Another element do we respire,
And all seems nobler, purer, rarer, higher,
'Twixt us, and all we deemed and called our own,
An awful curtain lowered, doth sundering frown;
The soul now opens to itself, and shows
New worlds—that it might ne'er before disclose;
Hemmed round with petty cares, and hopes, and aims,
With Earth's vain wishes—Earth's engrossing claims;
But now—and here 'tis strengthened to resist,
And learns in all its boundless might to exist!
'Tis a Translation!—and when once within
These mighty Walls that shut out strife and sin;
Pressing the hallowed marbles of this floor,
We feel new landed on some blessed shore,
Some glorious Isle of beauty and of peace,
Where all rough clamours, and all conflicts cease;
Some heavenly Isle of harmony and joy,
Where Life can lure not—nor pale Death destroy;
Where all the restless waves that round it roll,
But make more calm that country of the Soul!
'Tis an Ascension!—on the wings of love,
The wings of faith, that swift as meteors move;
How are we borne insensibly above!
'Tis a divine Lustration! how the heart
Feels purified in every conscious part
Its favourite frailties—cherished sins resigned,
That seemed before with every pulse entwined!
Oh! that this bright abstersion could but save
From stains to come, from future sullyings lave!
But no! too soon that blessed charm is o'er,
And we again are—all we were before!
Oh! 'tis a Confirmation! look around,
The stamp of Man's high origin is found
In this his noblest Work—supreme, sublime,
That looks as meant to tame the tyrant—Time!
This proudest labour of his artful hands,
That like the Sun, 'midst its own Glory stands!
Say, our charmed eyes can we far straining raise,
On this outshining, matchless roof to gaze;
Nor feel it must be Heaven that spreads above
The all glorious Dome beneath whose cope we move;
And move in all our littleness confessed,
By the dread scene's stupendous pomp oppressed.
Like puny, pigmy things—like things of nought,
Scarce seen—unless with watchful strictness sought—
Like what we are—the voyagers of a span—
(What else may be that busy pilgrim, man?)
Like fragile creatures of a fleeting hour,
That boast no strength, no truth, no light, no power;
Save what lies hid beneath the exterior frame,
And that from Heaven's rich grace alone we claim!
Twere well, proud shrine, could we our minds imbue
For aye, with all thou hint'st of sage and true,—
'Twere well to keep the soul to that high strain,
Which thou inspirest—Oh! Beatific Fane.

What heaps of priceless treasure here are piled—
What glory and what pomp, here proudly aisled!
Lo! what a more than mystery seems to brood
O'er this august and Heaven-like solitude!
An awful Presence—and a fearful Power—
Before whose might we shuddering quail and cower!
Where is the mind, that rash, or dull, or bold,
Would not confess a boundless awe untold,
'Midst these outshining marvels?—hither come,
Ye Sceptics!—and let this triumphant Dome
Do what Creation failed to do before:
Teach ye to know, to tremble, and to adore!
Something of spiritual-material there
Appears our own exalted doom to share!
Yea! something more than marble and than stone,
That speaks in our own tongue with loftiest tone!
Come hither—Unbelievers—Scoffers—Ye!
Who nought divine through Nature's range can see—
Come hither—to this conquering Sanctuary!
And let this Shrine of Shrines—sublime and dread,
Its own Religion o'er your spirits shed!
Pronounce the “Ephphatha,” that shall set you free,
To tell of Truth, and hear her high decree!
Its sacred light upon your darkness pour,
And give you Being you ne'er knew before;
Nobly advance you in Creation's scale,
And bid you almost pierce within the pale!
Teach you the eternal Laws supreme to know,
And glorious affluence without end bestow!
(Such wealth, such riches, as shall lift you high
Above this bleak world's barren poverty!)
Give you a boundless Life—a deathless Soul—
A trust—an aim—an anchor, and a goal—
A freedom, and a future, and a share
In all the ordained created things that are—
In all that knowledge grasps—that sense admires—
That thought approves—that even winged hope desires!
Give you a reign—beyond the conqueror's sway,
An inner Empire of perennial day—
A Universe of Harmony and Love,
Where, to one blessed end, still all things move!—
A Rock to uphold ye—and a Sun to light—
A sense of Truth—a consiousness of Right—
A glad Eternity of peace and bliss—
And more—if more can be—yea! more than this!
Give you—Ah! costliest boons that ere were given—
A pitying Saviour—and an opening Heaven!
A brightening passage to a blessed abode—
Oh! give you All—in giving you a God!