Its ST. PETER'S BUT lo! the dome,-the vast and wondrous dome, Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb! sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem But thou, of temples old, or altars new, Power, glory, strength, and beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; Has grown colossal, and can only find Thou movest, but increasing with the advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance; Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonise, All musical in its immensities; Rich marble, richer painting, shrines where flame The lamps of gold, and haughty dome which vies In air with earth's chief structures, though their frame Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the clouds must claim. Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break, To separate contemplation, the great whole; Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart. Not by its fault, but thine. Our outward sense That what we have of feeling most intense Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. LORD BYRON. THE ILLUMINATIONS OF ST. PETER'S I FIRST ILLUMINATION TEMPLE! where Time has wed Eternity, But yet how sweet the hardly waking sense, That when the strength of hours has quenched those gems, Disparted all those soft-bright diadems, Still in the sun thy form will rise supreme II SECOND ILLUMINATION My heart was resting with a peaceful gaze, Stunned by the splendour, saw against the sky haze. At last that giddying sight took form, and then From the black vault by unseen power let down, Cities of men, Queens of the earth! bow low, was ever brow LORD HOUGHTON. ST. JOHN LATERAN OF TEMPLES built by mortal hands, And grew unto a great estate, And waxed strong in grace and power, With Christ for head and faithful mate, And learning for her dower. Since first this house to him was raised, Three times five hundred years have run; For this let Constantine be praised, An English mother's son! He with his own imperial sword Did dig foundations broad and deep, That henceforth in his hand the Lord Rome and her hills should keep. 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! For thrice five hundred years! BESSIE RAYNER PARKES. |