The bell—what music from it roll'd!
Shook, as it peal'd, the trembling tower;
Rung by no mortal hand, but toll'd
By some unseen, unearthly power.
The selfsame power from Heaven thrill'd
My being to its utmost centre,
As, all with fear and gladness fill'd,
Beneath the lofty dome I enter.
I stood within the solemn pile—
Words cannot tell with what amazement,
As saints and martyrs seem'd to smile
Down on me from each gorgeous casement.
I saw the picture grow alive,
And I beheld a world of glory,
Where sainted men and women strive
And act again their godlike story.
Before the altar knelt I low—
Love and devotion only feeling,
While Heaven's glory seem'd to glow,
Depicted on the lofty ceiling.
Yet when again I upward gazed,
The mighty dome in twain was shaken,
And Heaven's gate wide open blazed,
And every veil away was taken.
What majesty I then beheld,
My heart with adoration swelling;
What music all my senses fill'd,
Beyond the organ's power of telling,
In words can never be exprest;
Yet for that bliss who longs sincerely,
O let him to the music list,
That in the forest soundeth clearly!
* * * * *
CHARLEMAGNE'S VOYAGE[27] (1812)
With comrades twelve upon the main
King Charles set out to sail.
The Holy Land he hoped to gain,
But drifted in a gale.
Then spake Sir Roland, hero brave:
"Well I can fight and shield;
Yet neither stormy wind nor wave
Will to my weapon yield."
Sir Holger spoke, from Denmark's strand:
"The harp I feign would play;
But what avails the music bland
When tempests roaring sway!"
Sir Oliver was not too glad;
Upon his sword he'd stare:
"For my own weal 'twere not so bad,
I grieve, for good Old Clare."