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THE OLD CHURCH.

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THE OLD CHURCH. It lieth gazing on the midnight sky."—SHELLEY. Grey, antique pile how awful is thy rest, At home for ever with the voiceless dead That slumber round thee there thou wakenest Thy long, tong vigil, o'er their lonely bed The aeeting steps of far-ned times have pressed Thee with the softness of their starlight tread, As on they New to their eternal lair, Leaving the dusky sign imperishably there. How like art thou, most solemn shadowy fane, Robed in the pearly garment of the moon, To structures seen within that fair domain Unveiled by sleep-the woe-worn spirit's boon—- That mighty word, where awful phantoms reign. 'Mid gorgeous clouds with golden light bestrewn, Throng'd by those raylike happy multitudes, Who walk the other shore of Death's broad sunset Hoods. Thou gazest sadly on the deep, deep sky, And glorious stars dispersed like spirits there, Like one that seeketh, through the years gone by, For some lost hope that was surpassing fair, Which made his heart, now wither'd, cold, and dry: A paradise where speechless glories were. Eternal silence is around thee cast, Thou form of awful thought, pale mourner of the past. The mighty breeze hangs round thee pure and cold, Strayed from its bower of stars low in the west, Tuning its wild harp to strange tales of old, As if to bid thy wakeful spirit rest, That hath for ages watched the sacred mould, A wistful guardian of the pulseless breast, And sole memorial of a ruin'd store Of tunny hopes and joys, in hearts that beat no more. Thy dim tone tower looks upward fixedly, Like steadfast hope beneath some cureless wrong; A few white clouds are sailing high and tree, A careless, happy, heaven-adoring throng. The moon, pale hermit of eternity. Glides her blue path in solitude along, But scatters o'er thee from her course above, An unremitting shower of holy light and love; A silver baptism-and each silent star From yonder deep immeasurable dome, The western breeze soft breathing from afar, The lucid ctoud in her aerial home; The solemn shades that night's weird ensign's are, The mighty past where viewless spirits roam, Gather and meet at this unworldly hour, To clothe thy dream-like form with mystery and power. And now the dizzy pageant of the day, Like echoes faint of tumults past and gone, Can scarce be heard, dissolving fast away, My human soul doth haunt the moonlight wan, That soothes the hoary age with magic ray, Resting those grey, w'rn battlements upon Earth's cold delusions disappear aghast, And in the invisible work! my spirit wakes at last. ?

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