St. Mary's at Night

Dear Mother! at whose angel-guarded shrine
The faithful sought of old their daily Bread,
How full thou art of impulses divine,
And memories deep and dread!

Steeped in the shades of night thou art unseen,
All save thy fretted tower, and airy spire
That travels upward to yon blue serene,
Like a mighty altar-fire;

For wavy streams of moonlight creep and move
Through little arches and o'er sculptures rare,
So lifelike one might deem that Angels love
To come and cluster there.

Oh! it is well that thou to us shouldst be
Like the mysterious bush, engirt with flame,
Yet unconsumed, as she that gifted thee
With her high virgin name;

And like the Church, that hath for ages stood
Within the world, and always been on fire;
Albeit her hidden scent, like cedar-wood,
Smells sweetest on the pyre.

The city sleeps around thee, save the few
That keep sad vigil, with their spirits bare,
As Gideon's fleece, to catch the cold fresh dew
That falls on midnight prayer.

Why doth thy lonely tower tell forth the time,
When men nor heed nor hear the warning sound?
Why waste the solemn music of thy chime
On hearts in slumber bound?

It is because thou art a church, to tell
How fast the end of all things comes along,
And, though men hear thee not, thy voice doth swell
Each night more clear and strong:

Content the few that watch should hear, and feel
Secure their Mother doth not, cannot sleep;
And, as they hear, the gracious dew doth steal
Into their soul more deep.

Or some young heart, that hath been kept awake
By chance or by his guardian Angel's skill,
Some serious thoughts unto himself may take
From "sounds so dread and still.

If there be none to hear, no hymn of praise,
Or voice of prayer, to join thy chant be given,
There is no sleep above, and thou mayest raise
Thy patient chimes to Heaven.