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New But liberty, and triumphs on the Main,
Churches And laurelled armies, not to be withstood -

What serve they? if, on transitory good
Intent, and sedulous of abject gain,
The State (ah, surely not preserved in vain !)
Forbear to shape due channels which the Flood
Of sacred truth may enter-till it brood
O’er the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian plain
The all-sustaining Nile. No more—the time
Is conscious of her want; through England’sbounds,
In rival haste, the wished-for Temples rise !
I hear their sabbath bells' harmonious chime
Float on the breeze-the heavenliest of all sounds
That vale or hill prolongs or multiplies !

Church to Be this the chosen site; the virgin sod,
be Erected Moistened from age to age by dewy eve,

Shall disappear, and grateful earth receive
The corner-stone from hands that build to God.
Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod
Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully;
Those forest oaks of Druid memory,
Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode
Of genuine Faith. Where, haply ’mid this band
Of daisies, shepherds sate of yore

and wove
May-garlands, there let the holy altar stand
For kneeling adoration; while--above,
Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove,
That shall protect from blasphemy the Land.

Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued, Continued
Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd,
When each pale brow to dread hosannas bowed
While clouds of incense mounting veiled the rood,
That glimmered like a pine-tree dimly viewed
Through Alpine vapours. Such appalling rite
Our Church prepares not, trusting to the might
Of simple truth with grace divine imbued ;
Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross,
Like men ashamed: the Sun with his first smile
Shall greet that symbol crowning the low Pile :
And the fresh air of incense-breathing morn
Shall wooingly embrace it; and green moss
Creep round its arms through centuries unborn.

The encircling ground, in native turf arrayed, New
Is now by solemn consecration given

Church-yard
To social interests, and to favouring Heaven,
And where the rugged colts their gambols played,
And wild deer bounded through the forest glade,
Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw driven,
Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even;
And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's spade
Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small,
But infinite its grasp of weal and woe!
Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flow ;-
The spousal trembling, and the “dust to dust,"
The

prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust That to the Almighty Father looks through all.

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!

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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 deenied 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 pérspective! while from our sight The Same
With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide
Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers,

dyed
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 Continued
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 Kingslook 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 !

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