Cathedrals, OPEN your gates, ye everlasting Piles! etc. Types of the spiritual Church which God hath reared;
Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles, Or down the nave to pace in motion slow; Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow And mount, at every step, with living wiles Instinct to rouse the heart and lead the will By a bright ladder to the world above. Open your gates, ye Monuments of love
Divine! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill! Thou, stately York! and Ye, whose splendours cheer
Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear!
Inside of Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, King's With ill-matched aims the Architect who College
Chapel, planned―
Cambridge Albeit labouring for a scanty band
Of white-robed Scholars only-this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence!
Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more;
So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.
WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight The Same With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers,
In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night!- But, from the arms of silence-list! O list! The music bursteth into second life; The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife; Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!
THEY dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here; Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam; Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome Hath typified by reach of daring art Infinity's embrace; whose guardian crest, The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread As now, when She hath also seen her breast Filled with mementos, satiate with its part Of grateful England's overflowing Dead.
Ejaculation GLORY to God! and to the Power who came In filial duty, clothed with love divine, That made his human tabernacle shine Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame; Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name From roseate hues, far kenned at morn and even, In hours of peace, or when the storm is driven Along the nether region's rugged frame! Earth prompts-Heaven urges; let us seek the light,
Studious of that pure intercourse begun
When first our infant brows their lustre won; So, like the Mountain, may we grow more bright From unimpeded commerce with the Sun, At the approach of all-involving night.
Conclusion WHY sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled, Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored, Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold His drowsy rings. Look forth!—that Stream behold,
THAT STREAM upon whose bosom we have passed Floating at ease while nations have effaced Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold Long lines of mighty Kings-look forth, my Soul! (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) The living Waters, less and less by guilt Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll, Till they have reached the eternal City-built For the perfécted Spirits of the just!
SERVING no haughty Muse, my hands have here Disposed some cultured Flowerets (drawn from spots
Where they bloomed singly, or in scattered knots), Each kind in several beds of one parterre ; Both to allure the Casual Loiterer,
And that, so placed, my Nurslings may requite Studious regard with opportune delight, Nor be unthanked, unless I fondly err. But metaphor dismissed, and thanks apart, Reader, farewell!
My last words let them be- If in this book Fancy and Truth agree; If simple Nature trained by careful Art Through It have won a passage to thy heart; Grant me thy love, I crave no other fee!
THE present issue of Wordsworth's "Sonnets" has been edited by Mr G. C. Moore Smith, M.A., of St. John's College, Cambridge, Professor of English Literature in University College, Sheffield.
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