13
The Minster.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Our hopes of immortality.
Byron.
Speak low!—the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer:
Tread lightly!—for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air;
Stern, yet serene!—a reconciling spell
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!
—Not for the light that pours its fervid streams
Of rainbow-glory down through arch and aisle,
Kindling old banners into haughty gleams,
Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb
Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:
Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing,
Mighty as forest-sounds when winds are nigh;
Nor yet for torch and cross, and stole, revealing
Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry;
Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power,
Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour,
C
