I am alone. Great hy nus fcat through The shadowed aisies. I hear a sicw With tender joy all others thrill; The faise priests' voices, high and shrill, I hear anew The nails and scourge; then come the low, Sad words, "Forgive them, for they know Not what they do." Close by my side the poor souls kneel; Half-pitying looks at me they steal; How following them, where'er they go, Above the organ's sweetest strains Of prisoners, who lie in chains, But Christ walks through The dungeons of St. Angelo, And says, "Forgive them, for they know And now the music sinks to sighs; The Pastorella's melodies In lingering echoes float and rise; More clear and true, In this sweet silence seem to flow The dawn swings incense, silver gray; Now comes, triumphant, God's full day; How on this blue Of God's great banner, blaze and glow ST. JOHN LATERAN. OF temples built by mortal hands, Give honor to the Lateran first; "T was here the hope of many lands The infant Church was nursed; Helen Hunt. And grew unto a great estate, And waxed strong in grace and power, Since first this house to him was raised, He with his own imperial sword In after ages, one by one, Arose the altars vowed to Heaven; Each crest is sacred now, but none Like this of all the Seven! Behold she stands! The Mother Church! Ah! open be that sacred porch For thrice five hundred years! Bessie Rayner Parkes. THE LATERAN CLOISTERS. THE very roses, thick with bloom, What sanctifies that belt of gloom? Are other pillars half so rich, So dainty delicate as these, Which curl and twist like woodland niche Set in a frame of trees! Two legendary stones are here, And cast a mystery round the spot; Let none to whom his Lord is dear Say he believes them not! Behold the well where Jesus stayed, Until for her who stood beside And as she went her way, she cried, See measured on that pillar's round And do not weigh what men believe, A garden blessed by many prayers, So pluck the golden Lateran rose Which blooms about each ancient stone; Shall not be left alone! Bessie Rayner Parkes. THE PANTHEON. CIMPLE, erect, severe, austere, sublime, SIMPLE, Shrine of all saints, and temple of all gods, From Jove to Jesus, - spared and blest by time;" Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods His way through thorns to ashes, — glorious dome ! Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods sanctuary and home Shiver upon thee, Of art and piety, - Pantheon! - pride of Rome! Relic of nobler days and noblest arts! To art a model; and to him who treads Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around them close. Lord Byron. |