The Abbey.
It is the hour of vespers ! solemn, slow,1
With downcast eyes, hands folded cross the breast,2
Like those of images that meekly rest3
On monuments of men dead long ago,4
The holy brethren, in a silent row,5
Pace to the Altar—where, on Mary’s breast,6
The infant Jesus lies, both bright exprest7
By Guido’s soul in that celestial glow !8
Bowed are all heads devout, unto the floor,9
And through the roof, magnificent and dim,10
Ascends the sweetness of a choral hymn,11
As paused the Organ-peal ! The Rites are o’er,—12
But doth not each lone kneeler yet adore,13
In his still cell, God ’midst his seraphim ?14