Thou that didst love,

Thou that didst weep and die

Thou that didst rise, a victor glorified! Conqueror! thou Son of God!

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,

D

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 be 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

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.