"Tax not the Royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned-- Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only--this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. . . . . . . . What awful pérspective! while from our sight With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed In 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 kissed By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife; Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy! Appendix List of Provosts from the Year 1443