x.
And they who 'neath the vaulted roof had bow'd
Of some proud minster of the olden time,
Or where the vast cathedral toward the cloud
Rear'd its dark pile, in symmetry sublime,
While through the storied pane the sunbeam play'd,
Tinting the pavement with a glorious shade,
Now breath'd from humblest fane their ancient chime.
And learn'd they not, His presence sure might dwell
With every seeking soul, tho' bow'd in lowliest cell?
xi.
Yet not quite unadorned their house of prayer,—
The fragrant offspring of the genial morn
They duly brought; and fondly offer'd there
The bud that trembles ere the rose is born,
The blue clematis, and the jasmine pale,
The scarlet woodbine, waving in the gale,
The rhododendron, and the snowy thorn,
The rich magnolia, with its foliage fair,
High priestess of the flowers, whose censer fills the air.
xii.
Might not such incense please thee, Lord of love?
Thou, who with bounteous hand dost deign to show
Some foretaste of thy Paradise above,
To cheer the way-worn pilgrim here below?
