FOOTNOTES:
[1] Miss Matty had been so good an audience that Colin at this time of his life was a little spoiled in respect to his poetry, which, however, after all, he did not consider poetry, but only verses, to amuse himself with. The little poem in question, which he had entitled “Vespers in the Pantheon,” is, for the satisfaction of his friends, given underneath:—
“What voice is in the mighty dome,
Where the blue eye of heaven looks through,
And where the rain falls, and the dew,
In the old heart of Rome?
On the vast area below
Are priests in robes of sullied white
And humble servitors that light
The altars with a feeble glow—
Pale tapers in the twilight dim:
Poor humble folks that come to say
Their farewell to departing day,
Their darkling faith in Him,
Who rules imperial Rome the last:
The song is shrill and sad below,
With discords harsh of want and woe
Into the music cast.
But from the mighty vault that bares
Its open heart unto the sky,
Vague peals of anthem sounding high
Echo the human prayers.
Oh solemn shrine, wherein lie dead
The gods of old, the dreams of men!
What voice is this that wakes again
The echoes overhead,
Pealing aloft the holiest name—
The lowliest name, Rome’s ancient scorn—
Now to earth’s furthest boundaries borne,
With fame above all fame?
Is it some soul whose mortal days
Had known no better God than Jove,
Though dimly prescient of a love
Was worthy higher praise?—