YORK MINSTER. 151
from this venerable cathedral, and it is a touching thought, that its great heart of stone keeps alive that incense to Jehovah, which too often grows dim and cold on the altar of the living soul.
��I stood within a Minster of old time, Ornate and mighty. Like a mount it reared Its massy front, with pinnacle and tower, Augustly beautiful. The morning sun Through noblest windows of refulgent stain, Mullioned, and wrought with leafy tracery, Threw o er the pavement many a gorgeous group Of cherubim and seraphim and saint, And long-robed patriarch, kneeling low in prayer, While, as his golden finger changed the ray, Fresh floods of brilliance poured on all around.
O er the long vista the delighted eye Bewildered, roved, transept, and nave, and choir, And screen elaborate, and column proud,
And vaulted roof that seemed another sky.
Methinks I hear a murmur, that t is vain To note mine etchings of an older world, Since all their vague impressions fall as short Of abbey or cathedral, as the wing
Of the dull beetle, that would scale their heights.
It may be so. I m sure t is loss of time, For me to speak of pediment and tower, Saxon or Norman, and debate with warmth,
�� �
