The Chapter-house: Episcopacy II

The soul that knows not thy constraining power,
Sacred Antiquity ! hath lost a spell
From Heaven, — a delicate chain impalpable
To hold clear spirits ; he hath miss'd the tower
Where Faith finds refuge, marr'd the sacred flower
Of bloom and modesty, aye wont to dwell
On Virtue's awful face. Love hath a cell
Where, watch'd and treasur'd as her choicest dower,
She keeps what bears the impress of her Lord,
Now doubly dear by age ; such high control
Is Piety's life-breath. If Freedom's word
Finds in thy breast an echo, lay aside
That right-asserting attitude of soul,
Ere in the Christian's temple thou abide,
Where he who dwells must dwell on bended knee,
From his own merits praying to be free.