33
THE CHURCH OF THE GESÙ.
Oft 'mid the work-day's crowd and heat,
The fret and fever, toil and strife,
The hollow tumult of the street,
I turn to breathe a purer life,
To where some temple's sheltering dome,
Lies hushed and lone, in marble gloom.
The fret and fever, toil and strife,
The hollow tumult of the street,
I turn to breathe a purer life,
To where some temple's sheltering dome,
Lies hushed and lone, in marble gloom.
Perchance, all still, my footsteps fall,
Arouse the echoes, and they call
From arch to arch, with whispering sound,
As soft I tread the holy ground.
At times an altar glistens far
Amid the darkness—tapers dim
Mysterious move, and then I hear
Some murmured rite, some vesper hymn,
Steal on the silence, low and clear;
Arouse the echoes, and they call
From arch to arch, with whispering sound,
As soft I tread the holy ground.
At times an altar glistens far
Amid the darkness—tapers dim
Mysterious move, and then I hear
Some murmured rite, some vesper hymn,
Steal on the silence, low and clear;
