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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408368" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>On a Spanish Cathedral</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">DEEP under the spires of a hill, by the feet of the thunder-cloud trod,<br>I pause in a luminous, still, magnificent temple of God!<br>At the steps of the altar august—a vision of angels in stone—<br>I kneel, with my head to the dust, on the floors by the seraphim known.<br>No father in Jesus is near, with the high, the compassionate face;<br>But the glory of Godhead is here—its presence transfigures the place!<br>Behold in this beautiful fane, with the lights of blue heaven impearled,<br>I think of the Elders of Spain, in the deserts—the wilds of the world!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I think of the wanderers poor who knelt on the flints and the sands,<br>When the mighty and merciless Moor was lord of the Lady of Lands.<br>Where the African scimitar flamed, with a swift, bitter death in its kiss,<br>The fathers, unknown and unnamed, found God in cathedrals like this!<br>The glow of His Spirit—the beam of His blessing—made lords of the men<br>Whose food was the herb of the stream, whose roof was the dome of the den.<br>And, far in the hills by the sea, these awful hierophants prayed<br>For Rome and its temples to be—in a temple by Deity made.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who knows of their faith—of its power? Perhaps, with the light in their eyes,<br>They saw, in some wonderful hour, the marvel of centuries rise!<br>Perhaps in some moment supreme, when the mountains were holy and still,<br>They dreamed the magnificent dream that came to the monks of Seville!<br>Surrounded by pillars and spires whose summits shone out in the glare<br>Of the high, the omnipotent fires, who knows what was seen by them there?<br>Be sure, if they saw, in the noon of their faith, some ineffable fane,<br>They looked on the church like a moon dropped down by the Lord into Spain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the Elders who shone in the time when Christ over Christendom beamed<br>May have dreamed at their altars sublime the dream that their fathers had dreamed,<br>By the glory of Italy moved—the majesty shining in Rome—<br>They turned to the land that they loved, and prayed for a church in their home;<br>And a soul of unspeakable fire descended on them, and they fought<br>And laboured a life for the spire and tower and dome of their thought!<br>These grew under blessing and praise, as morning in summertime grows—<br>As Troy in the dawn of the days to the music of Delphicus rose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In a land of bewildering light, where the feet of the season are Spring’s,<br>They worked in the day and the night, surrounded by beautiful things.<br>The wonderful blossoms in stone—the flower and leaf of the Moor,<br>On column and cupola shone, and gleamed on the glimmering floor.<br>In a splendour of colour and form, from the marvellous African’s hands<br>Yet vivid and shining and warm, they planted the Flower of the Lands.<br>Inspired by the patience supreme of the mute, the magnificent past,<br>They toiled till the dome of their dream in the firmament blossomed at last!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Just think of these men—of their time—of the days of their deed, and the scene!<br>How touching their zeal—how sublime their suppression of self must have been!<br>In a city yet hacked by the sword and scarred by the flame of the Moor,<br>They started the work of their Lord, sad, silent, and solemnly poor.<br>These fathers, how little they thought of themselves, and how much of the days<br>When the children of men would be brought to pray in their temple, and praise!<br>Ah! full of the radiant, still, heroic old life that has flown,<br>The merciful monks of Seville toiled on, and died bare and unknown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The music, the colour, the gleam of their mighty cathedral will be<br>Hereafter a luminous dream of the heaven I never may see;<br>To a spirit that suffers and seeks for the calm of a competent creed,<br>This temple, whose majesty speaks, becomes a religion indeed;<br>The passionate lights—the intense, the ineffable beauty of sound—<br>Go straight to the heart through the sense, as a song would of seraphim crowned.<br>And lo! by these altars august, the life that is highest we live,<br>And are filled with the infinite trust and the peace that the world cannot give.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They have passed, have the elders of time—they have gone; but the work of their hands,<br>Pre-eminent, peerless, sublime, like a type of eternity stands!<br>They are mute, are the fathers who made this church in the century dim;<br>But the dome with their beauty arrayed remains, a perpetual hymn.<br>Their names are unknown; but so long as the humble in spirit and pure<br>Are worshipped in speech and in song, our love for these monks will endure;<br>And the lesson by sacrifice taught will live in the light of the years<br>With a reverence not to be bought, and a tenderness deeper than tears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</a><div class=q>
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I pause in a luminous, still, magnificent temple of God!
At the steps of the altar august—a vision of angels in stone—
I kneel, with my head to the dust, on the floors by ..."></div>
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