The Oratories: Distant Church Music

My spirit hath gone up in yonder cloud
Of solemn and sweet sound — the many-voic'd
Peal upon peal, and now
The choral voice alone
At door of Heaven. My soul is all unsphered,
Soaring and soaring on the crystal car
Of airy sweetness borne,
And drinks ethereal air
Amid celestial shapes. I hear a voice
Alone before the Trinal Majesty,
Singing the Eternal Lamb,
While Silence sits aloof.

Twilight of unimagin'd Deity
It seems, save where, like thousand setting suns,
Heaven's portal darkly gleams, —
He hath gone down to man.

Far hath He thrown His crown to stars of Heaven,
And to the skies His clear empyreal robe,
To lightning His bright spear,
And to the clouds His bow.

A crown awaits Thee there, but not of gold,--
And who is she Thy coming harbingers?
No starry watchmen near
Creation's cradle set,
No kingly pursuivants. But sackcloth-rob'd
Heard stilly 'tween the torrent's fitful sound,
And wild-bird's cry forlorn,
'Mid rocks, and desert caves
Repentance' voice ! — Who on Thy goings wait?
No sun-bright legionry, but Sorrow meek,
Pity, meek Sorrow's child,
And Peace, of Pardon born.

While Hope prepares her gleaming car ; from high
With arms outstretch'd, out of a golden cloud
Righteousness leaning down
Hath kissed exil'd Peace.

To gates of darkness hies black-hooded Night, •
And on her waning brow lingers the Moon,
With silver bow to greet
Uprising glory's Sun.

E'en now upon th' horizon Morning walks
Doffing to Night her mantle grey, and stands
In gold and gleaming vest,
And glittering shafts reveal'd.

Ye waiting at th' eternal gate, with robes
Of penitential Sorrow, wash'd in blood,
And odorous lamps well trimm'd,
Your long-lov'd Lord to greet,
Lift up your eyes ! E'en now His coming glows
Where, on the skirt of yon Heaven-kissing hill,
The trees stand motionless
Upon the silvery dawn.

Deep Ocean treasures all her gems unseen,
To pave an archway to the eternal door,
And Earth doth rear her flowers
To strew your heavenly road.

The Stars on high shall be your diadem,
The Skies shall lend their rays to weave your robes,
And Iris stain the woof,
• Sons of th' eternal morn.