Poems (Eckley)/The Alps' Cathedral
HE village church, its joyous bells Are ringing music chimes;Filling the air with floating verse, Like a poet with his rhymes.
THE ALPS CATHEDRAL.
HE village church, its joyous bells Are ringing music chimes;Filling the air with floating verse, Like a poet with his rhymes.'Tis Sunday, and the villagers Their weekly toil lay by,To meet the day of holy rest, In bright festivity.
Yes! 'tis Sabbath in the valley, 'Tis Sabbath on the height;How solemn, deep, mysterious, is That Sabbath infinite.
There no rude jar, no earthly voice Rends the translucent air,But surpliced rocks of glittering snows Are priests who worship there.
Then go to this grand church with me, Not in the vale below,But upward on those icy peaks, Where angels come and go.
A vast Cathedral! sunlit walls Of amethystine glow,Of emerald green, of ruby blush, With polished floor of snow.
See the long aisles, the glittering nave, The choir of glacier blue,Hear the "Amen" from ceaseless rills, In solemn cadence flow.
And the deep diapason of The thund'ring torrent's swell,The organ of these awful heights, The avalanche's peal!
Then mark the niches, where enshrined Are statues cut in snow;No! no! they're angels! look again, See how they come and go.
And hear the voices from the pines, Far, far they chant below,Marching like armies up the steep, But pause at steps of snow.
But who of earth may enter here? What voices join to shareIn the devotion of this Church— This Alpine Church of prayer?
'Tis a Cathedral at whose door But they should enter in,Who've washed their robes from valley-stains— Earth's valley-stains of sin.
O spirits of departed life! Are ye not here with me—A lonely child of earth who'd mount Those heights to God with ye?
Courmajeur, 1861.