What awful pèrspective! while from our sight
Their portraiture the lateral windows hide,
Glimmers their corresponding stone-work, dyed
With the soft chequerings of a sleepy light.
Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite,
Whoe’er ye be, that thus—yourselves unseen—
Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen,
Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night!
But, from the arms of silence—list! O list!
The music bursteth into second life—
The notes luxuriate—every stone is kiss’d
By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife;
Heart-thrilling strains, that cast before the eye
Of the Devout a veil of ecstasy!