IN CHARTRES CATHEDRAL. We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think: From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. They died,-ay! they died: and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. "Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? The organ's dreamy undertone, The murmur while they pray; And I sit here alone, alone, And have no word to say; Cling closer shadows, darker yet, And heart be happy to forget. 777 And now, the mystic silence - and they kneel, A young priest lifts a star of gold, And then the sudden organ-peal! Ave and Ave! and the music rolled Up till the echoes mingled with the song; Ave and Ave, louder and more loud Upon the angel's wings! Right up to God! And you that sit there in the lowliest place, For me, wild thoughts I dare not tell, For you, the calm, the angel's breast, RENNELL RODD. WILLIAM KNOX. In Chartres Cathedral. THROUGH yonder windows stained and old Four level rays of red and gold Strike down the twilight dim, Four lifted heads are aureoled Of the sculptured cherubim, And soft like sounds on faint winds blown, Of voices dying far away, Hymn of the Churchyard. AH me! this is a sad and silent city: This is pale beauty's bower; but where the beautiful, -- Lines Written in Richmond Churchpard, Yorkshire. "It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias."— Matt. xvii. 4. METHINKS it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build- but for whom? But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom. Shall we build to Ambition? ah, no! For, see! they would pin him below, To Beauty? ah, no!- she forgets Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride- This is a place of gloom: where are the gloomy? See them above! they are not found beneath! For these low denizens, with artful wiles, Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles. This is a place of sorrow: friends have met And mingled tears o'er those who answered not; This is a place of fear: the firmest eye Hath quailed to see its shadowy dreariness; JOHN BETHUNE. But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? alas! 'tis in vain; The treasures are squandered again; To the pleasures which Mirth can afford- Ah! here is a plentiful board! Shall we build to Affection and Love? THANATOPSIS. Unto Sorrow?-The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve! Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here! Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! 779 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. HERBERT KNOWLES. Thanatopsis. To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, claim Earth, that nourished thee, shall Thy growth to be resolved to earth again; With patriarchs of the infant world- with kings, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,— So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Oh, may I join the Choir Invisible ! Он, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's minds To vaster issues. So to live is heaven; For which we struggled, failed, and agonized, Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love,— GEORGE ELIOT. Meditations of a Hindoo Prince and Skeptic. ALL the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod, Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and the steps of a God? Westward across the ocean and northward ayont the snow, Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know? Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm, Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops or the gusts of a gathering storm. In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen, Yet we all say: "Whence is the message, and what may the wonders mean?" A million shrines stand open and ever the censer swings, As they bow to a mystic symbol or the figures of ancient kings; And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry Of those who are heavy laden, and of cowards loath to die. OVER THE RIVER. 781 For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills; It is naught but the wide-world story, how the earth and the heavens began, Above is the sky, and around us the sound and the How the gods are glad and angry, and Deity once shot that kills. Pushed by a Power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown, We pray to the trees for shelter and press our lips to a stone. was man. I had thought: "Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell, Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell, The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock They have fathomed the depths we float on, or frowns hollow and grim, measured the unknown main." And the form and the nod of a demon are caught Sadly they turn from the venture and say that the The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that faithful guide? is gathered and gone The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at mountain-side. Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breath Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death. Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the first of an ancient name, Chiefs who were slain on the war-field and women who died in flame: They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race; Ever I watch and worship, they sit with a marble face. And the myriad idols around me and the legion of muttering priests, The revels and riots unholy, the dark, unspeakable feasts, What have they wrung from the silence? Hath even a whisper come Of the secret-Whence and Whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb. Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea? "The secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?" morning are level and lone? Is there naught in the heaven above, whence the rain and the levin are hurled, But the wind that is swept round us by the rush of the rolling world? The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleep, With the dirge and sounds of lamenting, and voices of women who weep. SIR ALFRED COMYNS LYALL. Over the River. OVER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see: Over the river, over the river, My brother stands waiting to welcome me. |