Classic Poem

In yon dense wood, full oft a bell
Is heard o'erhead in pealings hollow;
Yet whence it comes can no one tell,
Nor scarce its dark traditions follow.
For winds the chimes are floating o'er
Of the Lost Church, in mystery shrouded;
The pathway, too, is known no more
That once the pious pilgrims crowded.

I lately in that wood did stray,
Where not a foot-worn path extended;
And, from corruptions of the day,
My inmost soul to God ascended:
And in the silent, wild repose
I heard that ringing, deeper, clearer;
The higher my aspirings rose,
The sound descended, fuller, nearer.

That sound my senses so entranced,
My soul grew so retired and lowly,
I ne'er could tell how it had chanced
That I had reached a state so holy.
It seemed to me a century
Or more had passed while I was dreaming,
When I a radiant place could see
Above the mists with sunlight streaming.

The heavens a deep, dark blue appeared;
The sun's fierce light and heat were flowing;
And, in the golden light upreared,
A proud cathedral pile was glowing;
It seemed to me, the clouds so bright,
As if on wings, that pile were raising
Until its spires were lost to sight
Within the blessed heavens blazing.

And lo! that sweet bell's music broke
In quiv'ring streams within the tower;
No mortal hand its tones awoke;
The bell was rung by holy power.
And through my beating heart, too, swept
That power in full and perfect measure;
And thus beneath the dome I stepped,
With falt'ring feet and tim'rous pleasure.

Yet can I not in words make known
What there I felt: on windows painted
And darkly clear, around me shown,
Were pious scenes of martyrs sainted.
And wondrous clear before mine eyes,
To life that picture broadened slowly;
I saw a world before me rise,
Of God's brave men and women holy.

I knelt before the altar there,
Devotion, love, all through me stealing;
And all the heaven's glory fair
Was o'er me, painted on the ceiling.
And lo! when next I upward gazed,
The dome's vast arch had burst, and, wonder!
The heaven's gate wide open blazed
And ev'ry veil was rent asunder.

What glories on mine eyes did fall,
While thus in reverent awe still kneeling —
What holier sounds I heard than all
Of trumpet-blast or organ-pealing —
No words possess the power to tell;
Who truly would such bliss be feeling
Must listen to that deep-toned bell
When in the wood its notes are pealing.