YORK MINSTER.
I stood within a Minster of old time,
Ornate and mighty. Like a mount it reared
Its massy front, with pinnacle and tower,
Augustly beautiful. The morning sun
Through noblest windows of refulgent stain
Mullioned, and wrought with leafy tracery,
Threw o'er the pavement many a gorgeous group
Of cherubim and seraphim and saint,
And long robed patriarch, kneeling low in prayer,
While as his golden finger changed the ray,
Fresh floods of brilliance poured on all around.
—O'er the long vista the delighted eye
Bewildered roved, transept, and nave, and choir,
And screen elaborate, and column proud,
And vaulted roof that seemed another sky.
—Methinks I hear a murmur, that 't is vain
To note mine etchings of an older world,
Since all their vague impressions fall as short
Of abbey or cathedral, as the wing
Of the dull beetle, that would scale their heights.
