Corpus Christi.

XXV.
What music swells on every gale?
What heavenly Herald rideth past?
Vale sings to vale, "He comes; all hail!"
Sea sighs to sea, "He comes at last."
The Earth bursts forth in choral song;
Aloft her "Lauda Sion" soars;
Her myrtle boughs at once are flung
Before a thousand Minster doors.
Far on the white processions wind
Through wood and plain and street and court
The kings and prelates pace behind
The King of kings in seemly sort.
The incense floats on Grecian air;
Old Carmel echoes back the chant;
In every breeze the torches flare
That curls the waves of the Levant.
On Ramah's plain—in Bethlehem's bound—
Is heard to-day a gladsome voice:
"Rejoice," it cries, "the lost is found!
With Mary's joy, O Earth, rejoice!"
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XXVI.
Pleasant the swarm about the bough;
The meadow-whisper round the woods;
And for their coolness pleasant now
The murmur of the falling floods.
Pleasant beneath the thorn to lie,
And let a summer fancy loose;
To hear the cuckoo's double cry;
To make the noon-tide sloth's excuse.
Panting, but pleased, the cattle stand
Knee-deep in water-weed and sedge,
And scarcely crop the greener band
Of osiers round the river's edge.
But hark! Far off the south wind sweeps
The golden-foliaged groves among,
Renewed or lulled, with rests and leaps—
Ah! how it makes the spirit long
To drop its earthly weight, and drift
Like yon white cloud, on pinions free,
Beyond that mountain's purple rift,
And o'er that scintillating sea!
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XXVII.
Sing on, wide winds, your anthems vast!
The ear is richer than the eye:
Upon the eye no shape can cast
Such impress of Infinity.
And thou, my soul, thy wings of might
Put forth:—thou too, one day shalt soar,
And, onward borne in heavenward flight,
The starry universe explore;
Breasting that breeze which waves the bowers
Of Heaven's bright forest never mute,
Whereof perchance this earth of ours
Is but the feeblest forest-fruit.
"The Spirit bloweth where He wills"—
Effluence of that Life Divine
Which wakes the Universe, and stills,
In Thy strong refluence make us Thine!

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