This
temple, whose
majesty speaks, becomes a religion indeed;
The
passionate lights - the
intense, the ineffable beauty of sound -
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Go straight to the heart through the sense, as a song would of seraphim crowned.
And lo! by these altars
august, the life that is highest we live,
And are filled with the
infinite trust and the peace that the world cannot give.
They have passed, have the elders of time - they have gone; but the work of their hands,
Pre-eminent,
peerless,
sublime, like a type of
eternity stands!
They are mute, are the fathers who made this church in the century dim;
But the dome with their beauty arrayed remains, a
perpetual hymn.
Their names are unknown; but so long as the
humble in spirit and pure
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Are worshipped in speech and in song, our love for these monks will endure;
And the lesson by sacrifice taught will live in the light of the years
With a
reverence not to be bought, and a
tenderness deeper than tears.
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ROVER
No
classicwarrior tempts my pen
To fill with verse these pages -
No
lordly-hearted man of men
My Muse's thought engages.
Let others choose the
mighty dead,
And sing their battles over!
My
champion, too, has fought and bled -
My theme is one-eyed Rover.
A grave old dog, with
tattered ears
Too sore to cock up, reader! -
A four-legged hero, full of years,
But
sturdy as a cedar.
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Still, age is age; and if my rhyme
Is dashed with words pathetic,
Don't wonder, friend; I've seen the time
When Rove was more athletic.
He lies coiled up before me now,
A comfortable crescent.
His night-black nose and grizzled brow
Fixed in a fashion pleasant.
But ever and anon he lifts
The one good eye I mention,
And tries a thousand doggish shifts
To rivet my attention.
Just let me name his name, and up
You'll see him start and patter
Towards me, like a six-months' pup
In point of speed, but fatter.
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He pokes his head upon my lap,
Nor heeds the whip above him;
Because he knows, the dear old chap,
His human friends all love him.
Our younger dogs cut off from hence
At sight of lash uplifted;
But Rove, with grand indifference,
Remains, and can't be shifted.
And, ah! the set upon his phiz
At meals defies expression;
For I
confess that Rover is
A cadger by profession.
The
lesser favourites of the place
At dinner keep their distance;
But by my chair one grizzled face
Begs on with brave persistence.
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His jaws present a toothless sight,
But still my
hearty hero
Can satisfy an appetite
Which brings a bone to zero.
And while Spot barks and pussy mews,
To move the cook's compassion,
He takes his after-dinner snooze
In
genuine biped fashion.
In fact, in this, our ancient pet