Classic Poem

Yes, Southey, yes, I to the House of Prayer,
Each Sabbath Day, will duly bend my step,
For God himself requires my presence there:
The sacred fane at his command arose,
And one blest day in seven he calls his own.
On S INAI 's holy mount th' A LMIGHTY said,
" M AKE ME A S ANCTUARY ; " in mystic state
There, with his people, high communion held;
There, from the mercy-seat, his voice was heard,
Revealing hallow'd truths to favour'd man.
And when, among the wise and good, the time
That man refus'd to join in holy worship?
The Heathen temple, and the Turkish mosque,
The Jewish synagogue, and Christian church,
Have all resounded with a social praise.
Shall I then go, like thee, in churlish, wild,
Or solitary mood, to the lone vale,
The silent glen, or unfrequented grove,
When from the neighb'ring spire the cheerful bells
Call us in sweet society to join,
And offer holy pray'r? — With grateful love,
Father of Spirits, hail! behold I come!
Fill'd be my soul with reverential awe,
When in thy House I hear thy SACRED W ORD ,
Disclosing truths majestic, strong, severe,
Such as may make Vice tremble; while, in strains
Of heavenly sweetness to the troubled heart,
It whispers comfort and eternal rest.
Yet too, like thee, Southey, I deem it sweet
Widely to rove, where by no human eye
My footsteps may be trac'd; down the deep dell,
Where rocks on rocks are pil'd above my head,
To penetrate, and mark where, thro' their clefts,
The fibrous roots of some old elm, or yew,
Shoot bare, and rugged; whilst their trunks ascend
In shape grotesque and rude, excluding day.
How does my pensive soul, in these lone scenes,
Remote from mortal tread, delight to dwell,
Where I on Nature, and on Nature's God,
In calm repose, can meditate profound!
Sweet also to my ear, sweet as to thine,
Are Nature's melodies; the lowing herd,
The distant bell, that speaks the fold at rest;
The gushing rill, which, thro' the crevic'd rock,
Distills its freshness; the low-murmuring bee,
And cooing stock-dove; all awake my heart,
Southey, like thine, to tenderness and love.
Yet on that day, hallow'd by ages past,
To which exhausted Labour looks for rest,
And Tumult for the hour of sacred peace,
My feet shall hasten from their sylvan haunt,
Tho' sweet as fabling poets ever sung,
Mine ear thy warbling Philomel forego,
And all the woodland harmony of Spring,
To raise with man a nobler strain of praise:
Man, who alone, of all Creation, knows
His M AKER to adore with vocal praise.
Whether the village church attracts my steps,
Whose simple bell calls from the hamlets round
Their meek inhabitants, to praise their God ,
Where all is decent, quiet, plain, and fit,
And untaught voices hymn their M AKER 's praise;
Or whether, in some old cathedral pile
I find myself inclos'd, with cloister'd pillars,
Long Gothic ailes, and windows richly dim,
Where, slowly rising to the pealing sound
Of swelling organ, the loud-echoing chant,
And lofty anthem, raise th' enraptur'd soul;
Alike I own thy presence, hear thy word!
Nor would I, Southey, for the world forego
This dearest privilege to man allow'd,
Due, as the Sun each Sabbath Day shall shine,
To meet, with kindred man, the P ARENT God .