IX. What though, in scene so dark and age so past, All triumph they abjured but in the Bleeding Rood! X. Nor shall I lose Thine impress, wondrous Spot! Nor shall thy lustre fade, whate'er the lot Haply thy renovation shall debar, Of faith the Pharos long, of man the Star! Nor call it fickle chance or cruel fate, The Olive blooms which not a Flood could mar! (1.) The Bay of Martyrs is still shown to the stranger. (2.) The Nunnery of St. Oran. (3) The Cell of Monks. (4) The Cathedral. (5.) Rosse. Where is Duncan's body? Macduff. Carried to Colmes-Kill; The sacred storehouse of his predecessors, And guardian of their bones."-Macbeth. (6.) 1 Sam. x. 26. (7.) Psa. lxviii. 11. (8.) "Ad portum quietis et aram misericordiæ tandem, Luci, venisti." Apuleius. (9.) Dan. xii. 3. DOVEDALE. EMBRACED by mountains of precipitous rock, Long since the shattering earthquake's womb has burst On which thou fondly mayst, as mothers, trace Thy larger features far more lovely glassed! O foster-parent, sure such child of love And peace requites thee! still, still screen thy Dove! Hail peaceful, living, most pellucid, stream! Placid and murmuring as Thine emblem-name, Glancing still onward 'neath the sunny beam, As with an undiverted, solemn, aim! Peace be through all thy vale! I would not maim, With murderous art, the warbler on thy side Who trills its lay in tribute to thy fame,— Nor the just peeping tenants of thy tide, Which make instinct thy crystal waters glide! E'en now the fragrance of thy margent sod Breathes on my brow a rich and freshening balm,A pilgrim I, who streamless wastes have trod,These heights, the Zion! thou the river calm Which makest glad the Sanctuary of God! STONEHENGE. I TOSS upon the ebb of rolling time,- Are these the roots of some primæval Mount, Are they the buttresses on which was built It's name e'en buried in its dreadful fate? Are they devices of some Gymnic ground Where giants met and held their Titan-sport? Are they the types of the round Zodiac, Or mark the circuit of each planet-star? Are they the models of the World's huge frame, Left on its surface mutely to proclaim That its foundation still abideth sure? Are they spontaneous Rafter, Prop, and Shaft, Are they the Tombs of some old Burying-place,- Or are ye, rather, the once-hallowed stones In this chill, eddying, wind's most dirge-like strain? How art Thou fallen! Like this tumbled heap,- Here didst thou rise, Metropolitic Shrine ! Here human victims shuddered, altar-bound,— Still is there grandeur in this Votive Pile,- Setting to earth's far corners every aisle ! Which thousand storms and years in vain assault! The Cross has conquered! The dread Esus falls! The lichen creeps along the mouldering walls, A FAMILY IN HEAVEN. 'Tis blest, when families survive, E'en though their members widely part : And still more blest, the roof-tree round, Which severment and death have dealt : These lift to God a joyful sound, As 'neath their palms the Patriarchs dwelt ! But oh, most blest, when households stand And pour their triumph to the breeze! Yet not at once they gained that Port: Many the storms their prows have driven, Their toils were neither few nor short, Long days and starless nights they 've striven, But one by one that passage wrought, Parent, and child whom God has given ! |