SUNDAY REVERY
Vibrating to each sturdy tone,
My soul remembers well
The mild Madonna’s statue-stone
Within its ivory cell;
The ritual read, the chanting done—
The belfry music roll’d,
And all my faith, like Whittington,
Was in the tales it told!
And, oh! I feel as men must feel
Who have not wept for years;
Upon my cheek behold the seal
Of consecrated tears.
A mighty Sabbath calm is mine
That baffles human lore,
A resurrection of Lang Syne
A guiltless child once more.
And mother’s school-boy with his mimes,
This beamy Sunday morn,
Forgets the grim, tumultuous times
That hardened him in scorn.
Forgets terrific ocean days
Beyond the tropic gates,
Where the Magellan clouds down-gaze
On Patagonian Straits.
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