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 treasuries 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,
