
A oat’ to en 
Not to the domes where 
column 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, 
Which God hath planned. 
crumbling arch and 
To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
sooty ; 
Its choir the winds and waves—its organ thunder- 
Its dome the sky. 
here as in solitude and shade I wander, 
Through the green aisles, or stretched upon 
the sod, 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God. 
+ neil vo livin v¢ } 
Your voiceless lips, O flowers! are living preach 
ers, 
Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book 
Supplying to my fancy 
From loneliest 














