THE LITTLE CHAPEL.
It stands within a narrow, quiet street,
And well-worn steps ascend at either side,
Where, all day long till twilight, pious feet
Softly and silently forsake the tide
Of feverish life, to rest a little space
Within its calm, and gaze upon his face.
The dead Christ, lying on his Mother's breast,
May not uplift those lifeless, closed eyes:
O helplessness divine! O sweet behest!
Rigid and white beneath the cross he lies,
That here, before this holy altar-stone,
Our miserable pride be overthrown.
The dull, gray walls with simple Stations hung,
The stainèd windows, blending liquid rays
Of red and gold in lucent amber, flung
Across the chancel like a hymn of praise
From spirit-voices flowing—all of these
Make endless peace and wondrous harmonies.
And when at evening hour the solemn strain
Of some quaint Tantum Ergo, strange and sweet,
Tunes the full soul to perfect chords again,
And from the beaten pathway weary feet
Turn heavenward once more, unchained and free,
It is a dear and blessed place to be.
Slowly the heavy waves of incense rise,
Parting amid the arches overhead.
Start, fervent tears of peace from burning eyes!
Mount, happy prayers! Despair, lie prone and dead!
Open, ye perfumed clouds, and give them room,
While Benedicite pierces the gloom.
It is a quiet spot—the busy feet
Of toil and turmoil pause before its gates,
And turn aside, with reverent steps, to greet
The Holy One of Ages—him who waits,
With patient hands outstretched, to love and bless
The lowliest soul that craves his tenderness.