# Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems/Cathedral Hymn

CATHEDRAL HYMN.
"They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here." Wordsworth.
A dim and mighty minster of old time! A temple shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past!—the very light Streams with a colouring of heroic days In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back To other years;—and the rich fretted roof, And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose— The tenderest image of mortality— Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts Cluster like stems in corn sheaves—all these things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love! Honour he with the dead!—The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs.—The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewelled crowns On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes.—Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which, long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight depths away.—Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee—Lo! the blessed cross! High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, Fixed in its meek and still supremacy! And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, All their full treasures of immortal hope, Gathered before their God!—Hark! how the flood Of the rich organ harmony bears up Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst! A forest-sounding music!—every tone Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent: And the old minster—forest-like itself— With its long avenues of pillared shade, Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy Answering the electric notes.—Join, join, my soul! In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.
Rise like an altar-fire!  In solemn joy aspire, Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!  On thy strong rushing wind  Bear up from humankind Thanks and implorings—be they not in vain!
 Father, which art on high!  Weak is the melody Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,  Unless the heart be there,  Winging the words of prayer, With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.
 Let, then, thy spirit brood  Over the multitude— Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest!  So shall their cry have power  To win from thee a shower Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.
What griefs that make no sign,  That ask no aid but thine, Father of Mercies! here before thee swell!  As to the open sky,  All their dark waters lie To thee revealed, in each close bosom cell.
 The sorrow for the dead,  Mantling its lonely head From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;  And the fond, aching love,  Thy minister, to move All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.
 And doth not thy dread eye  Behold the agony In that most hidden chamber of the heart,  Where darkly sits remorse,  Beside the secret source Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?
Yes! here before thy throne  Many—yet each alone— To thee that terrible unveiling make;  And still small whispers clear  Are startling many an ear. As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.
 How dreadful is this place!  The glory of thy face Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:  Where shall the guilty flee?  Over what far off sea? What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light?
 Not to the cedar shade  Let his vain flight be made; Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;  What, but the cross, can yield  The hope—the stay—the shield? Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!
Be thou, be thou his aid!  Oh! let thy love pervade The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!  There let the living stone  Be cleft—the seed be sown— The song of fountains from the silence brought!
 So shall thy breath once more  Within the soul restore Thine own first image—Holiest and Most High!  As a clear lake is filled  With hues of Heaven, instilled Down to the depths of its calm purity.
 And if, amidst the throng  Linked by the ascending song, There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;  Thanks, Father! that the power  Of joy, man's early dower, Thus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore!
Thanks for each gift divine!  Eternal praise be thine, Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!  Let the hymn pierce the sky,  And let the tombs reply! For seed, that waits thy harvest-time, is there.