So on its thoughts my heart did brood, My sense was with the sound so busy, That I have never understood How I clomb up the height so dizzy. To me it seemed a hundred years Had passed away in dreaming, sighing-- When lo! high o'er the clouds, appears An open space in sunlight lying. The heaven, dark-blue, above it bowed; The sun shone o'er it, large and glowing; Beneath, a ministers structure proud Stood in the gold light, golden showing. It seemed on those great clouds, sun-clear, Aloft to hover, as on pinions; Its spire-point seemed to disappear, Melting away in high dominions. The bell's clear tones, entrancing, full-- The quivering tower, they, booming, swung it; No human hand the rope did pull-- The holy storm-winds sweeping rung it. The storm, the stream, came down, came near, And seized my heart with longing holy; Into the church I went, with fear, With trembling step, and gladness lowly. The threshold crossed--I cannot show What in me moved; words cannot paint it. Both dark and clear, the windows glow With noble forms of martyrs sainted. I gazed and saw--transfigured glory! The pictures swell and break their barriers; I saw the world and all its story Of holy women, holy warriors. Down at the altar I sank slowly; My heart was like the face of Stephen. Aloft, upon the arches holy, Shone out in gold the glow of heaven. I prayed; I looked again; and lo! The dome's high sweep had flown asunder; The heavenly gates wide open go; And every veil unveils a wonder. What gloriousness I then beheld, Kneeling in prayer, silent and wondrous, What sounds triumphant on me swelled, Like organs and like trumpets thunderous-- My mortal words can never tell; But who for such is sighing sorest, Let him give heed unto the bell That dimly soundeth in the forest.'" "Splendid!" cried the schoolmaster, with enthusiasm. "What is the lost church?" asked Mrs. Cathcart. "No one can tell, but him who finds it, like the poet," answered the curate. "But I suppose _you_ at least consider it the Church of England," returned the lady with one of her sweetest attempts at a smile. "God forbid!" exclaimed the clergyman, with a kind of sacred horror. "Not the Church of England!" cried Mrs. Cathcart, in a tone of horror likewise, dashed with amazement. "No, madam--the Church of God; the great cathedral-church of the universe; of which Church I trust the Church of England is a little Jesus-chapel." "God bless you, Mr. Armstrong!" cried the schoolmaster. The colonel likewise showed some sign of emotion. Mrs. Cathcart looked set-down and indignant. Percy stared. Adela and Harry looked at each other. "Whoever finds God in his own heart," said the clergyman, solemnly, "has found the lost Church--the Church of God." And he looked at Adela as he spoke. She cast down her eyes, and thanked him with her heart.