The Sanctuary

A PASTORAL scene ! a region of deep peace,
Where Nature and the Home dwell hand in hand
Harmonious ; one finds a sweet release
Here from all evil and the world ; the land
Heaves undulating mildly, and the elms
Lift murmuringboughsumbrageous in blue air.
There is a river moving in the realms
Of meadow, fallowland, and harvest fair ;
A velvet lawn slopes downward from the home,
Illumed with flowers, to meet with a churchyard
That seems a sister ; unaware we roam
Athwart the rill's division thitherward.
Nor feel a difference ; for meek mild flowers
On velvet turf love either ; the dear graves
Have headstone, or white cross ; the quiet hours
Are told, as if in dream, to the green waves
That heave above the sleepers, and soft winds
Around the church-tower, by the voice therein.
Yon hamlet nested in his orchard finds
The sunny pastor hath large heart akin
To humble joy and sorrow ; where he dwells
Abideth a warm halcyon atmosphere
Of hallowed calm, as in lone summer dells.
Within the house, and in the landscape here,
All is serenely soothing ; the grave words,
With looks, and deeds, arise from a deep spring
Of faith perennial beneath the sense.
No earthly heats may doom to perishing,
Because the birth of it is not from hence,
But in the heart of the eternal hills,
Pure child of ocean and eternal sun,
No fleeting wealth from casual-flowing rills.
Cool and refreshing when the rest are gone.

In yonder church the same pervading calm.
For troubled souls world-weary very balm !
Here is a sacring of pure lives and prayers,
Of holy aspirations, and kind cares ;
For here the brethren of the Holy Ghost
Worshipped and pondered, battled with the host
Infernal ; here, in early morning, while
White wings of cloud, enjoying the sun-smile,
Pass by the mullioned window-lights in blue,
Soft seven-fold flame of tapers will imbue
With warm translucency the white wax end
Of either ; seven-fold flame will upward tend
From candles culminant on either side
A brazen candelabrum branching wide,
Over an altar, in a deep twilight
Of cloth of gold, with broidery bedight,
Whereon are chalices for holy wine.
And crucifix of gold, the mystic sign.
There stands the priest white-robed, and whispers low,
While men and women reverent below
Kneel to receive the emblems ; there is lent
Reposeful calm from yonder monument.
Where the recumbent forms absorbed in prayer
Ever abide in shadowy cool air ;
They take no heed of our deluding time.
Our dewy eve, midnoon, or morning prime ;
They, tranced to marble, ever rest in peace.
So that we long to be with them and cease.
And here awhile our weary sails are furled.
Here in a haven folded from the world ;
Here we may taste awhile the bread of life.
And breathe an atmosphere aloof from strife ;
A ray of comfort steals into our prison
From happy souls, who with the Lord are risen.