Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 35 1832.pdf/7

 Honour be with the Dead!—The People kneel Under the Helms of antique Chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from Banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved Of Warriors on their tombs.—The People kneel Where mail-clad Chiefs have knelt; where jewelled crowns On the flushed brows of Conquerors have been set; Where the high Anthems of old Victories Have made the dust give echoes.—Hence, vain thoughts? Memories of Power and Pride, which, long ago, Like dim Processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight depths away.—Return, my Soul! The Cross recalls thee—Lo! the blessed Cross! High o'er the Banners and the Crests of Earth, Fixed in its meek and still supremacy! And lo! the throng of beating human hearts, With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, All their full treasuries of immortal Hope, Gathered before their God!—Hark! how the flood Of the rich Organ-harmony bears up Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst!— A forest-sounding music!—every tone Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent: And the old Minster—forest-like itself— With its long avenues of pillared shade, Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy Answering the electric notes.—Join, join, my Soul! In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, And thine own solitude, the glorious Hymn.