I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,
But to rejoice in splendour of mine own.
Shakspeare.
But lo! the dome—the vast and wondrous dome,
To which Diana’s marvel was a cell—
Christ’s mighty shrine above his martyr’s tomb!
I have beheld the Ephesian’s miracle—
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell
The hyæna and the jackal in their shade;
I have beheld Sophia’s bright roofs swell
Their glittering mass i’ the sun, and have surveyed
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed;
But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
Standest alone—with nothing like to thee—
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true.
Since Zion’s desolation, when that He
Forsook his former city, what could be,
Of earthly structures in his honour piled,
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty,
Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled.
Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
And why? it is not lessened; but thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.
What peremptory, eagle-sighted eye
Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,
That is not blinded by her majesty?
Shakspeare.
The glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist,
Turning, with splendour of his precious eye,
The meagre, cloddy earth to glittering gold.
Shakspeare.
No! I shall never lose the trace,
Of what I’ve felt in this bright place;
And should my spirit’s hope grow weak,—
Should I, O God! forget thy power,
This mighty scene again I’ll seek,
At the same calm and glowing hour;
And here at the sublimest shrine
That nature ever reared to thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!