THE PRAYER OF PETERHOUSE FOR THE HOUSE OF GOD [=ITS CHAPEL]. As bids the Day a keener longing stir The waking world, and warblings cheerier To birds inspires, when comes she o'er the hills, As quivering dart the streaks of Morn, and thrills Through lattic'd sky from roseate East the light Presaging his approach; nor absent quite, Nor glorying in his slacken'd reins, the Sun Is present all; and birds, to music won By gentle touch, are murmuring far and near,-- So we, on whom with radiance severe A solemn day begins to dawn; whose eye Now sees glide through the heavenly courts which lie, With portals wide--God's house is heaven, we say-- The flame unsteady of still wavering Day Slenderly stealing in; the prospect nigher, Our hearts too labour with extreme desire, And throb with hopes impatient of their end. How love of such a work our heart doth rend! How long desire makes hopes in leash restrain'd To pant! O sweetest House, on which has rain'd The torrent of God's fulness. Ah, who is he, Ah, who--O good, O huge in charity, O nigh to God Himself,--Whom to descend On His own gracious gifts he prays--shall lend This sacred twilight power to drive away All gloom, and shake her raiment into day? Ah, when, thou pitifully trem'lous bloom Of glimmering Day, that as from bridal room In the Orient cam'st to kiss our altar-stone, And beckonest to us from a star alone, In yonder distance shining doubtfully,-- Ah, when wilt thou expand to Day, and, free In conscious joy of thy full splendour, pour A flood of light, as when the Sun doth soar In golden mid-day, and, to full age grown, Shine through and through the pile, and make it own With awe thy sway, nor let the sacred walls Doubt thy embrace? Blest he to whom befalls To see the vaulted roofs span their fair sky, And break in flowers, while fretted ceilings lie Trembling with rosy laughter; which do now, As wearing of their shame a conscious brow, Bedew their formless face with dropping tear. When shall it be? the window growing clear With better light, that many a page devout May live, and life from glassy face breathe out. Ah, when, as hymn of praise we celebrate, Shall solemn-breathing murmur make vibrate The organ's nerves with graceful ceaseless hum; Nor pipe of lung unjust intruding come, Each harsh, uncertain note for ever dumb? Whatever else, in fine, this Sanctuary May need, that right-hand bless'd and happy be, And be it thine! to which the Dawn shall owe Its day. The altar kneels to thee. Do thou List to her prayer, and she will thine allow; Stretch out thy laden hand, and doubtful live Whether thou dost not more receive than give; That thou art happy do thou only hear, And turn thy loss to gain in yonder sphere.