A sudden sun-burst in the woods, But late sad Winter's palace dim! O'er quickening boughs and bursting buds Pacific glories shoot and swim. As when some heart, grief-darkened long, Conclusive joy by force invades-- So swift the new-born splendours throng; Such lustre swallows up the shades. The sun we see not; but his fires From stem to stem obliquely smite, Till all the forest aisle respires The golden-tongued and myriad light. The caverns blacken as their brows With floral fire are fringed; but all Yon sombre vault of meeting boughs Turns to a golden fleece its pall, As o'er it breeze-like music rolls. O Spring, thy limit-line is crossed! O Earth, some orb of singing Souls Brings down to thee _thy_ Pentecost! {76} _Dominica Pentecostes._ XXVIII. Clear as those silver trumps of old That woke Judea's jubilee; Strong as the breeze of morning, rolled O'er answering woodlands from the sea, That matutinal anthem vast Which winds, like sunrise, round the globe, Following the sunrise, far and fast, And trampling on his fiery robe. Once more the Pentecostal torch Lights on the courses of the year: The "upper chamber" of the Church Is thrilled once more with joy and fear. Who lifts her brow from out the dust? Who fixes on a world restored A gaze like Eve's, but more august? Who bends it heaven-ward on her Lord? {77} It is the Birthday of the Bride. The new begins; the ancient ends: From all the gates of Heaven flung wide The promised Paraclete descends. He who o'er-shadowed Mary once O'ershades Humanity to-day; And bids her fruitful prove in sons Co-heritors with Christ for aye. {78} _Dominica Pentecostes._ XXIX. The Form decreed of tree and flower, The shape susceptible of life, Without the infused vivific Power, Were but a slumber or a strife. He whom the plastic hand of God Himself created out of earth Remained a statue and a clod Till spirit infused to life gave birth. So, till that hour, the Church. In Christ Her awful structure, nerve and bone, Though built, and shaped, and organised, Existed but in skeleton; Till down on that predestined frame, Complete through all its sacred mould, The Pentecostal Spirit came,-- The self-same Spirit who of old Creative o'er the waters moved. Thenceforth the Church, made One and Whole, Arose in Him, and lived, and loved-- His Temple she; and He her Soul. {79} _Turris Davidica._ XXX. The towered City loves thee well, Strong Tower of David's House! In thee She hails the unvanquished citadel That frowns o'er Error's subject sea. With magic might that Tower repels A host that breaks where foe is none,-- No foe but statued Saints in cells High-ranged, and smiling in the sun.