If to such lowly lays,

I call no muse that wanders far aloof

And comes, invoked, to all,

But choose the droppings of this roof

From Silo's fount should fall:

Nor

ye that bade the song

Its notes unworthy deem,

If that blest streamlet's flowering banks along,

Its dews too magic seem;

For I have felt their influence, passing strong,

And rise-as, from his dream

The patriarch woke o'erawed,

And scarce could breathe, for fear,
This is the house of GOD,

And Heaven's high gate is here.

Whereon a good man treads, is holy ground:

For he is full of God:

And in his bosom's bound,

Lives th' Eternal Spirit; dwelling there

From that dread hour,

When he was written heir,

And seal'd a son of GoD with power.

Who wears the Christian name,

Hath stamp'd upon his brow,

His glory or his shame.

As he hath kept his vow

And those bright garments of his second birth, So doth he stand on Earth,

With black Iscarioth, or with godlike Paul:

For we are warriors all,

And in our blest crusade,

Not Doric mothers swore their boys to fight,

Like ours, when we were made

Each one, a red-cross knight,

And in pure armour dight,
Vow'd, in our Captain's might,

To wield a soldier-blade.

Oh ye that treasure well

The pearl-drops of salvation, shed
By mystic miracle,

Upon the beam-locks of your childhood's head,
There doth a spirit dwell

In your deep bosoms' bound,

Haunting the soul's profound,

That makes the common Earth, on which ye tread, Thrice-hallow'd ground!

IV.

So, in our high philosophy,

Spirit of this dull age,

Dream not that we are worshippers of thee, Or thank that harpy wing for tutelage, From which the many writers glean a pen : For we have read His wisdom, who was sage In Salem once, beyond the sons of men ; And that great son of Sirach's golden page, That, writ when men were wise, was wisdom then : And we have marked his blessed pilgrimage,

Who was himself true Wisdom, sent of GoD: And we are marching in the steps He trod, In hope, with seraphs yet to gather fruit, Where the green trees of life take deathless root, And o'er the crystal of light's fountain-spring, Wave their sweet branches, ever blossoming.

V.

Joy to young ardour now

That not with Stoic's lamp, or Epicure's,

Burns his long nights away!

But, his baptizéd brow,

Bends, in the blaze of day,

O'er the rich scroll of knowledge that endures.

Within him, flames a lamp,

That lights the cloisters damp

Of its clay temple, with eternal rays:

GOD, who is sire to him,

Hath lit his spirit dim,

Still brighter burning, with a perfect blaze.

Not, as in Hellas old,

Or villas manifold,

Round Tibur's cliff, and Anio's leap so bold,

Like those old sophists gropes the Christian boy For wisdom's hidden gold!

But from his better birth, sure heir of joy,
He pants for brighter things, through power divine
Yearning within him, and outpouring prayers,
With silent groanings; which the bread and wine
Of our true manna evermore repairs.
Star-paven is his way,

And his first footsteps are in wondrous light;
And gloriously he may

Escape the bounding gulfs of Errour's night;

B*

For him no taper ray

Leads, like the Sybil's bough,

Further from light astray,

But his dear guide art thou,
Father of Lights, for aye.

VI.

Lo, where he doth abide,

The classic heap that was the Heathen's lore
Is deftly piled aside,

To love, but not adore;
To wonder at, and be
Like furs the Stoic wore,
A rare old sight, to see,
But fit array no more.
Psyche and Hebe there,
Dug out from antique mine,
And rich beyond compare,

In the long galleries shine.

And he doth love and venerate old art,

As he were Phidias or Pericles;

But, the deep worship of his flaming heart, What doth it find in these!

The Faith in him that burns,

Like living coals-whereon as rapt he sings

The fuming incense of his love he flings,

Hath greater marvels with the chisel wrought,