How sweet and solemn at the close of day,
After a long and lonely pilgrimage
Among the mountains, where our spirits held
With wildering fancy and her kindred powers
High converse, to descend as from the clouds
Into a quiet valley, filled with trees
By Nature planted, crowding round the brink
Of an oft-hidden rivulet, or hung
A beauteous shelter o'er the humble roof
Of many a moss-grown cottage!
In that hour
Of pensive happiness, the wandering man
Looks for some spot of still profounder rest,
Where nought may break the solemn images
Sent by the setting sun into his soul.
Up to yon simple edifice he walks,
That seems beneath its sable grove of pines
More silent than the home where living thing
Abides, yea, even than desolated tower
Wrapt in its ivy-shroud.
I know it well,
The Village-Chapel! Many a year ago,
That little dome to God was dedicate;
And ever since, hath undisturbèd peace
Sat on it, moveless as the brooding dove
That must not leave her nest. A mossy wall,
Bathed though in ruins with a flush of flowers,
(A lovely emblem of that promised life
That springs from death), doth placidly enclose
The bed of rest, where with their fathers sleep
The children of the vale, and the calm stream
That murmurs onward with the self-same tone
For ever, by the mystic power of sound
Binding the present with the past, pervades
The holy hush as if with God's own voice,
Filling the listening heart with piety.
Oh! ne'er shall I forget the hour, when first
Thy little chapel stole upon my heart,
Secluded Troutbeck! 'Twas the Sabbath-morn,
And up the rocky banks of thy wild stream
I wound my path, full oft I ween delayed
By sounding waterfall, that 'mid the calm
Awoke such solemn thoughts as suited well
The day of peace; till all at once I came
Out of the shady glen, and with fresh joy
Walked on encircled by green pastoral hills.
Before me suddenly thy Chapel rose
As if it were an image: even then
The noise of thunder rolled along the sky,
And darkness veiled the heights,—a summer-storm
Of short forewarning and of transient power.
Ah me! how beautifully silent thou
Didst smile amid the tempest! O'er thy roof
Arched a fair rainbow, that to me appeared
A holy shelter to thee in the storm,
And made thee shine amid the brooding gloom,
Bright as the morning star. Between the fits
Of the loud thunder rose the voice of Psalms,
A most soul-moving sound. There unappalled,
A choir of youths and maidens hymned their God,
With tones that robbed the thunder of its dread,
Bidding it rave in vain.
Out came the sun
In glory from his clouded tabernacle;
And, wakened by the splendour, up the lark
Rose with a loud and yet a louder song,
Chaunting to heaven the hymn of gratitude.
The service closed; and o'er the churchyard spread
The happy flock who in that peaceful fold
Had worshipped Jesus, carrying to their homes
The comfort of a faith that cannot die,
That to the young supplies a guiding light
Steadier than reason's, and far brighter too,
And to the aged sanctifies the grass
That grows upon the grave.
O happy lot,
Methought, to tend a little flock like this,
Loving them all, and by them all beloved!
So felt their shepherd on that Sabbath-morn
Returning their kind smiles;—a pious man,
Content in this lone vale to teach the truths
Our Saviour taught, nor wishing other praise
Than of his great task-master. Yet his youth
Not unadorned with science, nor the lore
Becoming in their prime accomplished men,
Told that among the worldly eminent
Might lie his shining way:—but, wiser far,
He to the shades of solitude retired,
The birthplace of his fathers, and there vowed
His talents and his virtues, rarest both,
To God who gave them, rendering by his voice
This beauteous Chapel still more beautiful,
And the blameless dwellers in this quiet dale
Happier in life and death.