IM thro' the sculptured aisles the sunbeam falls More like a
Of some imagined beam,
Than actual daylight over mortal walls.
A strain of music like the rushing wind,
But deep and
As when the waters
In one mysterious harmony combined.
So swells the mighty organ, rich and full,
As if it were the
Which raised the glorious
Of that fair building, vast and wonderful.
Doth not the spirit feel its influence,
All vain and feverish care,
All thoughts that worldly are,
Strife, tumult, mirth, and fear are vanished hence.
The world is put aside, within the
Those hopes
Thrice sacred mysteries,
In which our earthly nature has no part.
Oh,
Christian Fane, the soul expands in thee,
Thine altar and thy
Speak of the hope and
Which leads and cheers man to eternity.
