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THE MINSTER.
165
THE MINSTER.
A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined
Our hopes of immortality.
Byron.
Speak low!—the place is holy to the breath
Of awful harmonies, of whisper'd prayer;
Tread lightly!—for the sanctity of death
Broods with a voiceless influence on the air:
Stern, yet serene!—a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.
Leave me to linger silently awhile!
—Not for the light that pours its fervid streams
