222 EVENING CHANT.
Of old St. Magdalen, so solemnly Touch the dull pavement with the lore of heaven, A tender/Jinted lesson, which the heart Sometimes in colder flintiness receives, Unkindled, unreflected. Next, to hear St. Mary s wondrous chant, at evening hour, As though the earth to angels bade good night, And they replied, hosanna ! then, to stand Beneath the pure eye of the watching stars, Where on the winds their eddying ashes rose, Who earthly mitre for a martyr s crown In flames exchanged.
Methought the scene returned Unfadingly before us. Then, as now, Fled was the Summer-flush, though Autumn s breath Delayed to sear the leaf, that o er the tide Of gentle Isis hung. Up through the mass Of woven foliage went the holy towers, And classic domes, where throned Science points To Alfred s honored name.
See the rude throng,
Dark glaring brows, and blood-shot, fiery eyes, And preparations dire for fearful pangs Of ignominious death. Yet all around, The sparkling waters, and benignant skies, And trees, with cool, embracing arms, allure To thoughts of mercy. Still, unpitying man Heeds not, relents not, though sweet Nature kneels, And sheds her holy tear-drops on his heart, To melt the savage purpose.
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