Draught of the stream of life,
Joy of the dream of life,
Peace of the spirit!
Sacred and holy hymns,
Placid and lowly hymns,
Thou dost inherit!”
So strange and subtle is the charm of this marvellous poem, with its abrupt and startling rhythm, that it affects me even yet, though I have but swept my fingers lightly over a single chord. I seem to myself to have again taken into my hand the old familiar harp, whose strings I have often struck in times of darkness or of depression of soul, and to be tuning it once more to the heavenly harmony which the old monk tried to catch. Perhaps some day, when the clouds are removed, I shall see him, and understand even better than now the glory that lit his lonely cell, and made him feel that
“Earth looks so little and so low
When faith shines full and bright.”