 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Sylvan Shrine, Dunmore
“They spake therefore one with another, as they
stood in the Temple, What think ye, that He will
not come?”—S. John xi. 56.
My temple green, whose mossy floor
I love to traverse o'er and o'er:—
Here beeches like tall columns rise,
Smooth boles with arching canopies:
A mighty boulder guards the door.
I love to traverse o'er and o'er:—
Here beeches like tall columns rise,
Smooth boles with arching canopies:
A mighty boulder guards the door.
The pillared vista I explore,
And “Will He come, whom I adore,”
I ask, “Whose Presence glorifies
My temple green?”
And “Will He come, whom I adore,”
I ask, “Whose Presence glorifies
My temple green?”
He comes, He comes!—O sweet surprise:
A sudden splendour fills my eyes!
From the rich West, as from Heaven's shore,
The sunbeams golden radiance pour,
And flood with lustre of the skies
My temple green!
A sudden splendour fills my eyes!
From the rich West, as from Heaven's shore,
The sunbeams golden radiance pour,
And flood with lustre of the skies
My temple green!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |