They shake down things that stood as rocks and towers

Unto th' undoubting mind; they pour in light Where it but startles-like a burst of day

For which th' uprooting of an oak makes way They sweep the colouring mists from off our sight; They touch with fire thought's graven page, the

roll

Stamp'd with past years-and lo! it shrivels as a scroll!

LXXV.

And this was of such hours! The sudden flow Of my soul's tide seem'd whelming me; the glare Of the red flames, yet rocking to and fro, Scorch'd up my heart with breathless thirst for air, And solitude, and freedom. It had been Well with me then, in some vast desert scene, To pour my voice out, for the winds to bear On with them, wildly questioning the sky, Fiercely the untroubled stars, of man's dim destiny.

LXXVI.

I would have call'd, adjuring the dark cloud; To the most ancient heavens I would have said— "Speak to me! show me truth!"—through night

aloud

I would have cried to him, the newly dead,

"Come back! and show me truth!"

seem'd

My spirit

Gasping for some free burst, its darkness teem'd With such pent storms of thought! Again I fled,

I fled, a refuge from man's face to gain,

Scarce conscious when I paused, entering a lonely

fane.

LXXVII.

A mighty minster, dim, and proud, and vast!
Silence was round the sleepers whom its floor
Shut in the grave; a shadow of the past,
A memory of the sainted steps that wore
Erewhile its gorgeous pavement, seem'd to brood
Like mist upon the stately solitude;

A halo of sad fame to mantle o'er

Its white sepulchral forms of mail-clad men ; And all was hush'd as night in some deep Alpine glen.

LXXVIII.

More hush'd, far more!-for there the wind sweeps by,

Or the woods tremble to the stream's loud play; Here a strange echo made my very sigh

Seem for the place too much a sound of day! Too much my footsteps broke the moonlight, fading,

Yet arch through arch in one soft flow pervading. And I stood still: prayer, chant had died away ; Yet past me floated a funereal breath

Of incense.

I stood still-as before God and death.

LXXIX.

For thick ye girt me round, ye long departed!" Dust-imaged forms-with cross, and shield, and crest;

It seem'd as if your ashes would have started

Had a wild voice burst forth above your rest! Yet ne'er, perchance, did worshipper of yore Bear to your thrilling presence what I bore Of wrath, doubt, anguish, battling in the breast! I could have pour'd out words, on that pale air, To make your proud tombs ring. No, no! I could not there!

LXXX.

Not midst those aisles, through which a thousand

years,

Mutely as clouds, and reverently, had swept ; Not by those shrines, which yet the trace of tears And kneeling votaries on their marble kept! Ye were too mighty in your pomp of gloom And trophied age, O temple, altar, tomb! And you, ye dead!—for in that faith ye slept, Whose weight had grown a mountain's on my heart, Which could not there be loosed. I turn'd me to depart.

LXXXI.

I turn'd: what glimmer'd faintly on my sight-
Faintly, yet brightening as a wreath of snow
Seen through dissolving haze? The moon, the
night,

Had waned, and down pour'd in-grey, shadowy,

slow,

Yet dayspring still! A solemn hue it caught, Piercing the storied windows, darkly fraught With stoles and draperies of imperial glow; And, soft and sad, that colouring gleam was thrown Where, pale, a pictured form above the altar shone.

LXXXII.

Thy form, thou Son of God!—a wrathful deep, With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee spread,

And such a weight of night!—a night, when sleep From the fierce rocking of the billows fled.

A bark show'd dim beyond Thee, with its mast Bow'd, and its rent sail shivering to the blast; But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread,

Thou, as o'er glass, didst walk that stormy sea Through rushing winds, which left a silent path for Thee.

LXXXIII.

So still thy white robes fell!-no breath of air
Within their long and slumb'rous folds had sway.
So still the waves of parted, shadowy hair
From thy clear brow flow'd droopingly away!
Dark were the heavens above thee, Saviour!-dark
The gulfs, Deliverer! round the straining bark!
But Thou!-o'er all thine aspect and array

Was pour'd one stream of pale, broad, silvery light:

Thou wert the single star of that all-shrouding night!

LXXXIV.

Aid for one sinking! Thy lone brightness gleam'd On his wild face, just lifted o'er the wave,

With its worn, fearful, human look, that seem'd To cry, through surge and blast-"I perishsave!"

Not to the winds-not vainly! Thou wert nigh,

VOL. IV.

Thy hand was stretch'd to fainting agony,
Even in the portals of th' unquiet grave!

O Thou that art the life! and yet didst bear
Too much of mortal woe to turn from mortal prayer!

LXXXV.

But was it not a thing to rise on death,
With its remember'd light, that face of thine,
Redeemer! dimm'd by this world's misty breath,
Yet mournfully, mysteriously divine?

O that calm, sorrowful, prophetic eye,
With its dark depths of grief, love, majesty!
And the pale glory of the brow!—a shrine

Where power sat veil'd, yet shedding softly round What told that Thou couldst be but for a time uncrown'd!

LXXXVI.

And, more than all, the heaven of that sad smile!
The lip of mercy, our immortal trust!

Did not that look, that very look, erewhile
Pour its o'ershadow'd beauty on the dust?

Wert thou not such when earth's dark cloud hung o'er Thee ?

Surely thou wert! my heart grew hush'd before Thee,

Sinking, with all its passions, as the gust

Sank at thy voice, along its billowy way:

What had I there to do but kneel, and weep, and pray?

LXXXVII.

Amidst the stillness rose my spirit's cry,
Amidst the dead—" By that full cup of woe,