Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/477



how the mystically mingled sound Of voices rising from these rifted rocks And unseen valleys—whence no organ ever Thundered harmonious its stupendous notes, Nor pointed arch, nor low-browed darksome aisle, Rolled back their mighty music—seems to me An ocean vast, divinely undulating, Where, bathed in beauty, floats the enraptured soul: Now borne on the translucent deep, it skirts Some dazzling bank of amaranthine flowers, Now on a couch of odours cast supine, It pants beneath o'erpowering redolence:— Buoyant anon on a rejoicing surge, It heaves, on tides tumultuous, far aloft, Until it verges on the cope of heaven, Whence issued, in their unity of joy, The anthems of the earth-creating Morn: Yielding again to an entrancing slumber, In sweet abandonment, it glideth on To amber caves and emerald palaces,