Page:The poems of Emma Lazarus volume 1.djvu/117

Rh Than choral anthems and the solemn mass. A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness, Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears; Youth s blamelessness and faith forever lost, The love of his neglected lyre, his art, Revived by these aerial harmonies. He was unworthy now to touch the strings, Too base to stir men s soul to ecstasy And high resolves, as in the days agone; And yet, with all his spirit s earnestness, He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands, To utter all the trouble of his life Unto the Muse who understands and helps. Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsiness By dying music and sweet-scented air, His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame. Auroral light the eastern oriels touched, When with delicious sense of rest he woke, Amidst the vast and silent empty aisles. &quot; God s peace hath fallen upon me in this place; This is my Bethel; here I feel again A holy calm, if not of innocence, Yet purest after that, the calm serene Of expiation and forgiveness.&quot; He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forth Through the tall portal to the open square, And turning, paused to look upon the pile. The northern front against the crystal sky Loomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade,