The Problem

    I like a church； I like a cowl；

    I love a prophet of the soul；

    and on my heart monastic aisles¹

    Fall like sweet strains， or pensive² smiles；

    Yet not for all his faith can see

    Would I that cowled churchman be.

    Why should the vest on him alure，

    Which I could not on me endure？

    Not from a vain or shallow thought

    His awful Jove young Phidias brought；

    Never from lips of cunning fell

    The thrilling Delphic oracle³；

    Out from the heart of nature rolled

    The burdens of the Bible old；

    the litanies of nations came，

    Like the volcano's tongue of flame，

    Up from the burning core below，——

    The canticles of love and woe⁴；

    The hand that rounded Peter's dome⁵，

    And groined the aisles of Christian⁶ Rome，

    Wrought⁷ in a sad sincerity⁸；

    Himself from God he could not free；

    He builded better than he knew；——

    The conscious stone to beauty grew.

    Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest

    Of leaves， and feathers from her breast？

    Or how the fish outbuilt her shell，

    Painting with morn each annual cell？

    Or how the sacred pine-tree adds

    To her old leaves new myriads⁹？

    Such and so grew these holy piles，

    Whilst love and terror laid the tiles.

    Earth proudly wears the Parthenon，

    As the best gem¹⁰ upon her zone；

    And Morning opes with hast her lids，

    To gaze upon the Pyramids；

    O'er england's abbeys bends the sky，

    As on its friends， with kindred eye；

    For， out of Thought's interior sphere，

    These wonders rose to upper air；

    And nature gladly gave them place，

    Adopted them into her race，

    And granted them an equal date

    With Andes and with Ararat.

    These temples grew as grows the grass；

    Art might obey， but not surpass.

    The passive master lent his hand

    To the vast soul that o'er him planned；

    And the same power that reared the shrine¹¹，

    Bestrode the stibes that knelt within.

    Ever the fiery¹² Pntecost

    Girds with one flame the countless¹³ host，

    Trances the heart through chanting choirs¹⁴，

    And through the priest the mind inspired.

    The word unto the prophet spoken

    Was writ¹⁵ on tables yet unbroken；

    The word by seers or sibyls told，

    In groves¹⁶ of oak， or fanes of gold，

    Still floats upon the morning wind，

    Still whispers to the willing mind.

    One accent of the Holy Ghost

    The heedless world hath never lost.

    I know what say the fathers wise，——

    The Book itself before me lies，

    Old Chrysostom， best Augustine，

    And he who blent both in his line，

    The younger Golden Lips or mines，

    Taylor， the Shakspeare of divines.

    His words are music in my ear，

    I see his cowled portrait dear；

    And yet， for all his faith could see，

    I would not the good bishop¹⁷ be.