As bids the Day a keener longing stir
The waking world, and warblings cheerier
To birds inspires, when comes she o'er the hills,
As quivering dart the streaks of Morn, and thrills
Through lattic'd sky from roseate East the light
Presaging his approach; nor absent quite,
Nor glorying in his slacken'd reins, the Sun
Is present all; and birds, to music won
By gentle touch, are murmuring far and near,--
So we, on whom with radiance severe
A solemn day begins to dawn; whose eye
Now sees glide through the heavenly courts which lie,
With portals wide--God's house is heaven, we say--
The flame unsteady of still wavering Day
Slenderly stealing in; the prospect nigher,
Our hearts too labour with extreme desire,
And throb with hopes impatient of their end.
How love of such a work our heart doth rend!
How long desire makes hopes in leash restrain'd
To pant! O sweetest House, on which has rain'd
The torrent of God's fulness. Ah, who is he,
Ah, who--O good, O huge in charity,
O nigh to God Himself,--Whom to descend
On His own gracious gifts he prays--shall lend
This sacred twilight power to drive away
All gloom, and shake her raiment into day?
Ah, when, thou pitifully trem'lous bloom
Of glimmering Day, that as from bridal room
In the Orient cam'st to kiss our altar-stone,
And beckonest to us from a star alone,
In yonder distance shining doubtfully,--
Ah, when wilt thou expand to Day, and, free
In conscious joy of thy full splendour, pour
A flood of light, as when the Sun doth soar
In golden mid-day, and, to full age grown,
Shine through and through the pile, and make it own
With awe thy sway, nor let the sacred walls
Doubt thy embrace?
Blest he to whom befalls
To see the vaulted roofs span their fair sky,
And break in flowers, while fretted ceilings lie
Trembling with rosy laughter; which do now,
As wearing of their shame a conscious brow,
Bedew their formless face with dropping tear.
When shall it be? the window growing clear
With better light, that many a page devout
May live, and life from glassy face breathe out.
Ah, when, as hymn of praise we celebrate,
Shall solemn-breathing murmur make vibrate
The organ's nerves with graceful ceaseless hum;
Nor pipe of lung unjust intruding come,
Each harsh, uncertain note for ever dumb?
Whatever else, in fine, this Sanctuary
May need, that right-hand bless'd and happy be,
And be it thine! to which the Dawn shall owe
Its day. The altar kneels to thee. Do thou
List to her prayer, and she will thine allow;
Stretch out thy laden hand, and doubtful live
Whether thou dost not more receive than give;
That thou art happy do thou only hear,
And turn thy loss to gain in yonder sphere.
Thou know'st what wheel makes riches fly away;
These riches therefore here securely lay,
Fountains of a House perennial,
On the Petrensian rock; from Fortune shall
Her own wheel thus be wrench'd. Thou knowest how prone
A wing bears up unconstant riches, blown
On vagrant, veering winds. Come, take away
These wings from fleeting riches, make them stay
At these our altars, and build here their nest;
Till arm'd with wings to better flight redress'd,
They may transport themselves to the home of rest,
Bearing their master with them.
Blest that man
Who knowing prudently the times to scan,
The airiness of wealth to profit brings,
And him on Fortune's pinions deftly flings,
And to his riches adds an eagle's wings. S.S.