Restoration Of Malmesbury Abbey.[201]

Monastic and time-consecrated fane! Thou hast put on thy shapely state again, Almost august as in thy early day, Ere ruthless Henry rent thy pomp away. No more the mass on holidays is sung, The Host high raised, or fuming censer swung; No more, in amice white, the fathers, slow, With lighted tapers, in long order go; Yet the tall window lifts its arched height, As to admit heaven's pale, but purer light; Those massy clustered columns, whose long rows, Even at noonday, in shadowy pomp repose, Amid the silent sanctity of death, Like giants seem to guard the dust beneath. Those roofs re-echo (though no altars blaze) The prayer of penitence, the hymn of praise; Whilst meek Religion's self, as with a smile, Reprints the tracery of the holy pile, Worthy its guest, the temple. What remains? O mightiest Master! thy immortal strains These roofs demand; listen! with prelude slow, Solemnly sweet, yet full, the organs blow. And, hark! again, heard ye the choral chant Peal through the echoing arches, jubilant? More softly now, imploring litanies, Wafted to heaven, and mingling with the sighs Of penitence from yon altar rise; Again the vaulted roof "Hosannahs" rings-- "Hosannah! Lord of lords, and King of kings!" Rent, but not prostrate; stricken, yet sublime; Reckless alike of injuries or time; Thou, unsubdued, in silent majesty, The tempest hast defied and shalt defy! The temple of our Sion so shall mock The muttering storm, the very earthquake's shock, Founded, O Christ, on thy eternal rock!

* * * * *

ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES THE FIRST,

AT NIGHT, IN ST GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR.

The castle clock had tolled midnight: With mattock and with spade, And silent, by the torches' light, His corse in earth we laid.

The coffin bore his name, that those Of other years might know, When earth its secrets should disclose, Whose bones were laid below.

"Peace to the dead" no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave,-- No prayers were read, no knell was rung, As deep we dug his grave.

We only heard the winter's wind, In many a sullen gust, As, o'er the open grave inclined, We murmured, "Dust to dust!" A moonbeam from the arch's height Streamed, as we placed the stone; The long aisles started into light, And all the windows shone.

We thought we saw the banners then, That shook along the walls, Whilst the sad shades of mailèd men Were gazing on the stalls.

'Tis gone! again on tombs defaced Sits darkness more profound; And only by the torch we traced The shadows on the ground.

And now the chilling, freezing air Without blew long and loud; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer, Where he slept in his shroud.

We laid the broken marble floor,-- No name, no trace appears,-- And when we closed the sounding door, We thought of him with tears.

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ON SEEING PLANTS IN THE WINDOWS OF SETH WARD'S COLLEGE,

ENDOWED FOR WIDOWS OF CLERGYMEN, AT SALISBURY.

There is but one stage more in life's long way, O widowed women! Sadly upon your path Hath evening, bringing change of scenes and friends, Descended, since the morn of hope shone fair; And lonely age is yours, whose tears have fallen Upon a husband's grave,--with whom, long since, Amid the quietude of village scenes, We walked, and saw your little children grow Like lovely plants beside you, or adorned Your lowly garden-plot with summer flowers; And heard the bells, upon the Sabbath morn, Chime to the village church, when he you loved Walked by your side to prayer. These images Of days long passed, of love and village life, You never can forget; and many a plant Green growing at the windows of your home, And one pale primrose, in small earthen vase, And bird-cage in the sunshine at the door, Remember you, though in a city pent, Of morning walks along the village lane, Of the lark singing through the vernal hail, Of swallows skimming o'er the garden pond,-- Remember you of children and of friends Parted, and pleasant summers gone! 'Tis meet To nurse such recollections, not with pain, But in submission to the will of Heaven; Thankful that here, as the calm eve of life, In pious privacy, steals on, one hearth Of charity is yours; and cold must be That heart, which, of the changes of the world Unmindful, could receive you but as guests, Who had seen happier days! Yet one stage more, And your long rest will be with him you loved. Oh! pray to God that each may rest in hope!

* * * * *

MORLEY'S FAREWELL TO THE COTTAGE OF ISAAK WALTON.

TO KENNA.

England, a long farewell! a long farewell, My country, to thy woods, and streams, and hills! Where I have heard in youth the Sabbath bell, For many a year now mute: affection fills Mine eyes with tears; yet resolute to wait, Whatever ills betide, whatever fate; Far from my native land, from sights of woe, From scaffolds drenched in generous blood, I go. Sad, in a land of strangers, when I bend With grief of heart, without a home or friend, And chiefly when with weary thoughts oppressed, I see the sun sink slowly in the west; Then, doubly feeling my forsaken lot, I shall remember, far away, this cot Of humble piety, and prayer, and peace, And thee, dear friend, till my heart's beatings cease. Warm from that heart I breathe one parting prayer: My good old friend, may God Almighty spare-- Spare, for the sake of that poor child, thy life,-- Long spare it for thy meek and duteous wife. Perhaps o'er them, when the hard storm blows loud, We both may be at rest and in our shroud; Or we may live to talk of these sad times, When virtue was reviled, and direst crimes Faith's awful name usurped. We may again Hear heavenly truths in the time-hallowed fane, And the full chant. Oh! if that day arrive, And we, old friend, though bowed with age, survive, How happy, whilst our days on earth shall last, To pray and think of seasons that are past, Till on our various way the night shall close, And in one hallowed pile, at last, our bones repose.

* * * * *

THE GRAVE OF BISHOP KEN.

On yonder heap of earth forlorn, Where Ken his place of burial chose, Peacefully shine, O Sabbath morn! And, eve, with gentlest hush, repose.

To him is reared no marble tomb, Within the dim cathedral fane; But some faint flowers, of summer bloom, And silent falls the wintry rain.

No village monumental stone Records a verse, a date, a name-- What boots it? when thy task is done, Christian, how vain the sound of fame!

Oh! far more grateful to thy God, The voices of poor children rise, Who hasten o'er the dewy sod, "To pay their morning sacrifice."

And can we listen to their hymn, Heard, haply, when the evening knell Sounds, where the village brow is dim, As if to bid the world farewell!

Without a thought that from the dust The morn shall wake the sleeping clay, And bid the faithful and the just Upspring to heaven's eternal day!

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF ST CECILIA AND THE ANGEL.

'Twas when, O meekest eve! thy shadows dim Were slowly stealing round, With more impassioned sound Divine Cecilia sang her vesper hymn, And swelled the solemn chord In hallelujahs to thy name, O Lord! And now I see her raise Rapt adoration's gaze, With lips just opening, and with humid eyes Uplifted; whilst the strain Now sinks, now swells again; Now rising, seems to blend with heaven's own harmonies. But who is that, divinely fair, With more than mortal beauty in his mien; With eyes of heavenly hue and glistening hair, His white and ample wings half seen! O radiant and immortal guest! Why hast thou left thy seraph throng, On earth the triumph to attest Of Beauty, Piety, and Song!

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