The sky it was so blue and bland,
    The sun it was so full and glowing,
  As rose a minster vast and grand,
    The golden light all round it flowing. 
  The clouds on which it rested seem’d
    To bear it up like wings of fire;
  Piercing the heavens, so I dream’d,
    Sublimely rose its lofty spire.

  The bell—­what music from it roll’d! 
    Shook, as it peal’d, the trembling tower;
  Rung by no mortal hand, but toll’d
    By some unseen, unearthly power. 
  The selfsame power from Heaven thrill’d
    My being to its utmost centre,
  As, all with fear and gladness fill’d,
    Beneath the lofty dome I enter.

  I stood within the solemn pile—­
    Words cannot tell with what amazement,
  As saints and martyrs seem’d to smile
    Down on me from each gorgeous casement. 
  I saw the picture grow alive,
    And I beheld a world of glory,
  Where sainted men and women strive
    And act again their godlike story.

  Before the altar knelt I low—­
    Love and devotion only feeling,
  While Heaven’s glory seem’d to glow,
    Depicted on the lofty ceiling. 
  Yet when again I upward gazed,
    The mighty dome in twain was shaken,
  And Heaven’s gate wide open blazed,
    And every veil away was taken.

  What majesty I then beheld,
    My heart with adoration swelling;
  What music all my senses fill’d,
    Beyond the organ’s power of telling,
  In words can never be exprest;
    Yet for that bliss who longs sincerely,
  O let him to the music list,
    That in the forest soundeth clearly!

* * * * *

  CHARLEMAGNE’S VOYAGE[27] (1812)

  With comrades twelve upon the main
    King Charles set out to sail. 
  The Holy Land he hoped to gain,
    But drifted in a gale.

  Then spake Sir Roland, hero brave: 
    “Well I can fight and shield;
  Yet neither stormy wind nor wave
    Will to my weapon yield.”

  Sir Holger spoke, from Denmark’s strand: 
    “The harp I feign would play;
  But what avails the music bland
    When tempests roaring sway!”

  Sir Oliver was not too glad;
    Upon his sword he’d stare: 
  “For my own weal ’twere not so bad,
    I grieve, for good Old Clare.”

  Said wicked Ganilon with gall
    (He said it ’neath his breath): 
  “The devil come and take ye all—­
    Were I but spared this death!”

  Archbishop Turpin deeply sighed: 
    “The knights of God are we. 
  O come, our Savior, be our guide,
    And lead us o’er the sea!”

  Then spake Sir Richard Fearless stern: 
    “Ye demons there in hell,
  I served ye many a goodly turn,
    Now serve ye me as well!”

  “My counsel often has been heard,”
    Sir Naimes did remark. 
  “Fresh water, though, and helpful word
    Are rare upon a bark.”