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The Walk.

"Retiring from the populous noise, I seek
This unfrequented place."-MILTON.

NOT through the Queen of Cities' lordliest street,
Although all passing beautiful its sweep

Of gray old colleges and gables steep,

Where spire, and dome, and bridge, and gateway

meet,

Let us now turn our fashionable feet;

But unobserv'd, not unobserving, creep

Down by the bank, where the green willows weep
For Cherwell drown'd in Isis: there a seat
Courts us awhile, till from the farther shore
The ferryman is hail'd to punt us o'er.
Now through the summer fields away, away,
The grass beside the path brushing our knees;
Haste! for the chapel bell, swung on the breeze,
Pealing too quick return, forbids delay.

The Chapel.

"Lo! Discord at the altar dares to stand,

Uplifting toward high heaven her fiery brand."
WORDSWORTH.

How richly mellow'd through the painted glass The tranquil flood of solemn light pours down Upon each oaken stall's time-polished brown, On marble chequer'd floor, and desk of brass. Along the aisle, in spotless surplice, pass Student and Fellow, while yet lingering swell The last faint echoes of the vesper bell,

With the same tones that summon'd erst to mass.
Spirit of Unity! keep fast the bands

That bind to thee thy Church! here chiefly rule!
For this thy primal sanctuary: here stands
True Doctrine's very fountain-head and school;
Yet here blind Schism is threatening to divide
Those who should teach thy Gospel side by side.

A Chapel Thought— Prayer.

"And chiefly thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer,

Before all temples, the upright heart and pure,

Instruct me."

Paradise Lost.

"Know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost?"

1 Cor. vi. 19.

"The truly holy soul which hath receiv'd

The unattainable, can hallow hell.

Each orb is to itself the heart of heaven;

And each belief, wherein man roots his hope,

And lives and dies, the favourite of God."-Festus.

MAN's heart, God's holiest temple; and His rite
Best loved, a contrite spirit's sacrifice,

Whether beneath the flush of morning skies,
Or star-evok'd, when that most earnest Night
With tongues of flame discourseth of His might;
Or in the lonely chamber, when the eyes
Of Thought peer into the Eternities,

With humble, hopeful, though not fearless sight:
Or when in the World's battle, in mid fight
Of jarring elements, by masteries

Of self, with ruth for others' groans and sighs,
Throneward it soareth, with a seraph flight,
To the All-Powerful, All-Just, All-Wise,
In pray'r for universal good and right.

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SWEET is the fall of music on the ear,
The song of birds, and soft voice of the rill;
Sweet the breeze-murmur sighing o'er the hill;
Sweet the leaves' rustle in their prime or sear;
Yet sweeter o'er the spirit, and more clear,
Come heavenly harmonies unheard and still.
With such a melody doth Conscience fill
The good man's fainting soul when death is near;
And oft in life a tone celestial swells

Vaguely and in brief snatches, as the wind
Sweeps o'er Æolian harp-strings, on the mind,
When, in its dream-like hours of rest, it dwells,
Rapt, on the mystic parts of that vast plan,
God's work, where deathless harmony began.

A Chapel Thought.

ON AN IVORY IMAGE OF THE VIRGIN

MARY.

"Yet some, I ween,

Not unforgiven, the suppliant knee might bend,

As to a visible Power, in which did blend

All that was mix'd and reconcil'd in Thee,

Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene."

WORDSWORTH.

IT haunts me, how it haunts me, that sweet face
Of more than earthly beauty; those blue eyes
In whose calm depth such wondrous pity lies;
Those faintly-smiling lips, whereon I trace
A flash of passing triumph; that smooth grace
Of the chaste, faithful brow; the blush that dyes
That modest cheek, suffus'd like Charity's
O'er-spied by stranger in her hiding-place ;—

It haunts me, how it haunts me, that sweet face,—
Not with its beauty only, but its air

Of hope and love, humility and pray'r.

'Tis not Art's dream, some sculptor-fancy's birth;

But thee, Madonna, as thou wast on earth,
Dear mother of the Saviour of our race.

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