Most beautiful! I gaze and gaze
In silence on the glorious pile,
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
But if I stood a stranger here,
The ground were still divine.
Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt
To commune with his God;
By sacred spring, or haunted well,
Beneath the ruined temple’s gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit’s cell,
Or the false Prophet’s tomb.
But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than here the limner’s art hath graced
From the time-honoured stone?
The Spirit here of worship seems
To bind the soul in willing thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams
Come at her voiceless call;
At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapour’s silvery fold;
At morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form
Makes that fair scene more deeply fair,
And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,
Are all Religion there.
ANTICIPATION.
“Oh yes! he is in Parliament;
He’s been returning thanks;
You can’t conceive the time he’s spent
Already on his franks.
He’ll think of nothing, night and day,
But place, and the Gazette:”—
No matter what the people say,—
You won’t believe them yet.
“He filled an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes;
Now we shall only see, you know,
His speeches in the Times:
And liquid tone and beaming brow,
Bright eyes and locks of jet,
He’ll care for no such nonsense now:”
Oh! don’t believe them yet!
“I vow he’s turned a Goth, a Hun,
By that disgusting Bill;
He’ll never make another pun;
He’s danced his last quadrille.
We shall not see him flirt again
With any fair coquette;
He’ll never laugh at Drury Lane.”—
Psha!—don’t believe them yet.
“Last week I heard his uncle boast
He’s sure to have the seals;
I read it in the Morning Post,
That he has dined at Peel’s;
You’ll never see him any more,
He’s in a different set:
He cannot eat at half-past four:”—
No?—don’t believe them yet.
“In short, he’ll soon be false and cold,
And infinitely wise;
He’ll grow next year extremely old,
He’ll tell enormous lies;
He’ll learn to flatter and forsake,
To feign and to forget:”—
O whisper—or my heart will break—
You won’t believe them yet!