Erewhile of Death and human suffering
Spoke we, and lingered, as in some dark wood
The pilgrim lingers ere he dare approach
The golden shrine, where on his sight shall break
Light of pure grace from Heaven;–the end of toil
Is near; and through the trembling intervals
Of over–arching boughs, rich pinnacles
Spire up into the sky: the music deep
Of prayer–inviting bells fills all the air,
No longer heard in fitful swells and falls,
Over far fields and waters, but poured forth
As if the voice of the cathedral pile
From tower and transept, and the thousand forms
Of sculptured saints and angels, sent at once
Its hymn of holy rapture up to God.
As when the stars in heaven around the moon
Show brightly, and the under air is calm,
All headland tops and beacon–towers, and steeps,
Are clothed with visible light, and from above
The glory of the boundless firmament
Flows downward, and the heavenly host is seen,
The heart of him that watches by the fold
Swells in his breast for joy; so riseth now
My labouring bosom, and the choking tears
Are thronging on my voice for very joy
At prospect of the inner life divine.
Light from afar: The night is well–nigh spent,
The day at hand. No more of earthly woe,
Of conflict now no more. The laver pure
Of new Baptismal innocence, the Ark
That bears us through the flood which fell for sin,
And lands us in the country far away,
All love, all knowledge of divinest lore
Regained; the pathway shining like the light
That shineth ever to the perfect day,–
These be our converse now; yon solemn Church,
The sanctuary of Earth, with its flushed tower,
Is full in view: and we are here in peace
With the sunset falling round us, by our hearth;
Meet time for talk of mystic truths and high,
Best pondered on, when every fleeting thing
Is shut from our observance, and the sight
From outward lures turns inward on the soul.
And thou art with me, who hast ever been
The spirit of my song–no longer now
Half–known, untried, a theme of restless thought,
By self–distrusting fondness glorified;
But tried and known, approved and manifest,
Partaker of a thousand wakeful schemes,
And cares of daily love. The April moon,
When she looks over thickets fresh in green,
Whose young leaves tremble in her golden light,
Tempereth not with such a peaceful charm
The rapturous gush of bowered nightingale,
As doth thy quiet look my struggling thoughts;
Nor, if I guess aright, doth the full song
Of the night warbler with more life endow
The slumbering moonlight, than these tuneful words
Thy patient spirit, rapt in holy calm
Of contemplation, married to desire,
Wandering or resting as affection leads.
We have been dwellers in a lovely land,
A land of lavish lights and floating shades,
And broad green flats, bordered by woody capes
That lessen ever as they stretch away
Into the distance blue; a land of hills,
Cloud–gathering ranges, on whose ancient breast
The morning mists repose; each autumn tide
Deep purple with the heath–bloom; from whose brow
We might behold the crimson sun go down
Behind the barrier of the western sea:
A land of beautiful and stately fanes,
A
(Henry Alford)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, God Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Soul Poems, War & Peace Poems, Joy & Excitement Poems, Heaven Poems, Sense & Perception PoemsBased on Keywords: bowered, transept, laver, half-known, over-arching, heath-bloom, tempereth, song-no, cloud-gathering