Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
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THE HYMN. |
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 | Sir Lancelot |  |
THE HYMN.
See, see how evening's sloping shadows grow
Upon the massy nave, and all the stone
Is flecked with little clouds of colour, thrown
From the west window; on the ground they go,
Silently creeping eastward, while the air
Thickens within the choir, and so conceals
The Altar, whose benignant presence there
The slowly rocking lamp alone reveals.
Ah me, how still! Our Lady's Vesper song
Hath died away amid the choral throng;
But the pure-visaged moon, that climbs elate
The throne of day, now strikes with trembling light
The painted lattice, where the livelong night
Saint Mary chants her lone Magnificat.
Upon the massy nave, and all the stone
Is flecked with little clouds of colour, thrown
From the west window; on the ground they go,
Silently creeping eastward, while the air
Thickens within the choir, and so conceals
The Altar, whose benignant presence there
The slowly rocking lamp alone reveals.
Ah me, how still! Our Lady's Vesper song
Hath died away amid the choral throng;
But the pure-visaged moon, that climbs elate
The throne of day, now strikes with trembling light
The painted lattice, where the livelong night
Saint Mary chants her lone Magnificat.
Hail, Mary, hail! O Maiden-Mother, hail!
In thankfulness I lean upon the thought
Of thy mysterious chastities; unsought
Comes the sweet faith thy prayers can never fail
In that high Heaven where thou hast been assumed;
And with this hope my spirit newly plumed
Strives upward, like a weary dove in sight
Of her lost refuge, steering by the light
Wherewith thy name hath silently illumed
The Church below, cheering the gradual night
The world hath forced upon the primal day
Of our sweet faith; and I, on penance cast
Till patient yearning should retrieve the past,
May bless thee for the succour of thy ray!
The light is vocal, wavering on the glass;—
The jewel midway in the braided hair,
The eyes, the lifted hand, are speaking there,
And o'er the lips the argent quiverings pass.
She sings! she sings! but thirsty silence drinks
The heavenly sound before its burden sinks
Into my listening ear. Hail, Mary, hail!
Hail thou that art the haven of the heart
Accessible in all our moods, a veil
Obscuring not, but gifted to impart
New aspects of the Cross: though sin erase
That Sign from Heaven, before our downcast eyes,
Which fall on thee, its sweet reflection lies
Like a soft shadow in a moonlit place.
Hail, Mary, hail! O Wondrous Mother! pray
To thy dear Son who takes our sins away!
In thankfulness I lean upon the thought
Of thy mysterious chastities; unsought
Comes the sweet faith thy prayers can never fail
In that high Heaven where thou hast been assumed;
And with this hope my spirit newly plumed
Strives upward, like a weary dove in sight
Of her lost refuge, steering by the light
Wherewith thy name hath silently illumed
The Church below, cheering the gradual night
The world hath forced upon the primal day
299
Till patient yearning should retrieve the past,
May bless thee for the succour of thy ray!
The light is vocal, wavering on the glass;—
The jewel midway in the braided hair,
The eyes, the lifted hand, are speaking there,
And o'er the lips the argent quiverings pass.
She sings! she sings! but thirsty silence drinks
The heavenly sound before its burden sinks
Into my listening ear. Hail, Mary, hail!
Hail thou that art the haven of the heart
Accessible in all our moods, a veil
Obscuring not, but gifted to impart
New aspects of the Cross: though sin erase
That Sign from Heaven, before our downcast eyes,
Which fall on thee, its sweet reflection lies
Like a soft shadow in a moonlit place.
Hail, Mary, hail! O Wondrous Mother! pray
To thy dear Son who takes our sins away!
| Sir Lancelot | |