this mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmonies through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulcher vocal! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more dense and powerful

it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls the ear is stunned the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee it is rising from the earth to heaven - the very soul seems rapt away and floated upward on this swelling tide of harmony!

(IRVING: Westminster Abbey)

CHILDE HAROLD LAMENTS ROME'S DOWNFALL

Oh Rome, my country! city of the soul!

The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, Lone mother of dead empires, and control In their shut breasts their petty misery. What are our woes and sufferance? come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye! Whose agonies are evils of a day A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands,

Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe; An empty urn within her withered hands, Whose holy dust was scattered long ago: The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; The very sepulchres lie tenantless

Of their heroic dwellers - dost thou flow,
Old Tiber, through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hilled city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire,

And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride
Where the car climbed the capitol; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say,

"here was, or is," where all is doubly night? (BYRON: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage)

KING ARTHUR'S FAREWELL

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfills himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself; what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friends!
For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest if indeed I go

For all my mind is clouded with a doubt-
To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

(TENNYSON: The Passing of Arthur)

AMONG THE MOUNTAIN PEAKS

Arrived aloft he [a wanderer] finds himself lifted into the sunset light; and cannot but pause, and gaze round him, some moments there. An upland irregular expanse of world, where valleys in complex branchings are suddenly or slowly arranging their descent towards every quarter of the sky. The mountain-ranges are beneath your feet, and folded together; only the loftier summits look down here and there as on a second plain; lakes also lie clear and earnest in their solitude. No trace of man now visible; unless indeed it were he who fashioned that little visible link of Highway, here, as would seem, scaling the inaccessible, to unite Province with Province. But sunwards, lo you! how it towers sheer up, a world of Mountains, the

diadem and center of the mountain region! A hundred and a hundred savage peaks, in the last light of Day; all glowing, of gold and amethyst, like giant spirits of the wilderness; there in their silence, in their solitude, even as on the night when Noah's Deluge first dried! Beautiful, nay solemn, was the sudden aspect to our Wanderer. He gazed over those stupendous masses with wonder, almost with longing desire; never till this hour had he known Nature, that she was One, that she was his Mother, and divine. And as the ruddy glow was fading into clearness in the sky, and the Sun had now departed, a murmur of Eternity and Immensity, of Death and Life, stole through his soul; and he felt as if Death and Life were one, as if the Earth were not dead, as if the Spirit of the Earth had its throne in that splendor, and his own spirit were therewith holding communion.

(CARLYLE: Sartor Resartus)

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old-
Lord of our far-flung battle-line —
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine -
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-
The captains and the kings depart-
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away

On dune and headland sinks the fire-
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-
Such boasting as the gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the Law
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

(KIPLING: Recessional)

PERORATION OF WEBSTER'S REPLY TO HAYNE

While the union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious union; on States, dissevered,