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Title: Written After The Consecration Of The New Church At Kingswood
Author: William Lisle Bowles [
More Titles by Bowles]
When first the fane, that, white, on Kingswood-Pen,
Arrests, far off, the pausing stranger's ken,
Echoed the hymn of praise, and on that day,
Which seemed to shine with more auspicious ray,
When thousands listened to the prelate[1] there,
Who called on God, with consecrating prayer;--
I saw a village-maid, almost a child,
Even as a light-haired cherub, undefiled
From earth's rank fume, with innocent look, her eye
Meekly uplifted to the throne on high,
Join in the full choir's solemn harmony.
Oh, then, how many boding thoughts arose,
Lest, long ere varied life's uncertain close,
Those looks of modesty, that open truth
Lighting the forehead of ingenuous youth--
Lest these, as slowly steal maturing years,
Should fade, and grief succeed, and dimming tears;
Then should the cheek be blanched with early care,
Sin mark its first and furrowing traces there,
With touch corroding mar the altered mien,
And leave a canker where the rose had been;
Then the sweet child, whose smiles can now impart
Joy overpowering to a mother's heart,
Might bring down, when not anxious love could save,
That mother's few gray hairs with sorrow to the grave!
But, hark! the preacher's voice, his accents bland,
Behold his kindled look, his lifted hand;
What holy fervour wakes at his command!
He speaks of faith, of mercy from above,
Of heavenly hope, of a Redeemer's love!
Hence every thought, but that which shows fair youth
Advancing in the paths of peace and truth!
Which shows thy light, O pure religion! shed,
Like a faint glory, on a daughter's head,
Who shall each parent's love, through life, repay,
And add a transport to their dying day!
I saw an old man, on his staff reclined,
Who seemed to every human change resigned:--
He, with white locks, and long-descending beard,
A patriarch of other years appeared:
And thine, O aged, solitary man!
Was life's enchanted way, when life began,
The sunshine on each mountain, and the strain
Of some sweet melody, in every plain;
Thine was illusive fortune's transient gleam,
And young love's broken, but delicious dream;
Those mocking visions of thy youth are flown,
And thou dost bend on death's dark brink alone
The light associates of thy vernal day,
Where are they? Blown, like the sere leaves, away;
And thou dost seem a trunk, on whose bare head
The gray moss of uncounted days is spread!
I know thee not, old man! yet traits like these,
Upon thy time-worn features fancy sees.
Another, or another year, for thee,
Haply, "the silver cord shall loosed be!"
Then listen, whilst warm eloquence portrays
That "better country" to thy anxious gaze,
Who art a weary, way-worn "pilgrim here,"
And soon from life's vain masque to disappear.
O aged man! lift up thine eyes--behold
What brighter views of distant light unfold;
What though the loss of strength thou dost deplore,
Or broken loves, or friends that are no more?
What though gay youth no more his song renews,
And summer-light dies, like the rainbow hues?
The Christian hails the ray that cheers the gloom,
And throws its heavenly halo round the tomb.
Who bade the grave its mouldering vault unclose?
"Christ--Christ who died; yea, rather, Christ who rose!"
Hope lifts from earth her tear-illumined eye,
She sees, dispersed, the world's last tempest fly;
Sees death, arrested 'mid his havoc vast,
Lord, at thy feet his broken weapons cast!
In circles, far retiring from the sight,
Till, undistinguished, they are lost in light,
Admiring seraphim suspend their wings,
Whilst, hark! the eternal empyrean rings,
Hosannah, Lord of lords, and King of kings!
Such thoughts arose, when from the crowded fane
I saw retire the mute, assembled train;
Their images beguiled my homeward way,
Which high o'er Lansdowne's lonely summit lay.
There seemed a music in the evening gale,
And looking back on the long-spreading vale,
Methought a blessing waited on the hour,
As the last light from heaven shone on the distant tower.
[Footnote 1: The Bishop of Gloucester.]
[The end]
William Lisle Bowles's poem: Written After The Consecration Of The New Church At Kingswood
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