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Translated by S. Eliot
I. THIS massive form, sculptured in mountain stones, | |
| As it once issued from the earth profound, | |
| Monstrous in stature, manifold in tones | |
| Of incense, light, and music spread around; | |
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| This an unquiet people still doth throng, | 5 |
| With pious steps, and heads bent down in fear,— | |
| Yet not so noble as through ages long | |
| Is old Toledo’s sanctuary austere. | |
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| Glorious in other days, it stands alone, | |
| Mourning the worship of more Christian years, | 10 |
| Like to a fallen queen, her empire gone, | |
| Wearing a crown of miseries and tears. | |
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| Or like a mother, hiding griefs unseen, | |
| She calls her children to her festivals, | |
| And triumphs still,—despairing, yet serene,— | 15 |
| With swelling organs and with pealing bells. * * * * * | |
II. Looking with sombre brow | |
| On the stream flowing by, | |
| It scorns the world below, | |
| And mourns, through bells tolled low, | 20 |
| From tower high. | |
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| It seems to breathe deep sighs, | |
| Breaking a spell borne long,— | |
| To gaze towards the skies, | |
| And speak life’s destinies | 25 |
| With bells,—its tongue. | |
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| Then comes, in peals outbreaking, | |
| Gigantic harmony, | |
| The church, its slumbers shaking, | |
| In joyous life awaking, | 30 |
| Shouts glad and free. * * * * * | |
| The tones are changing,—hark! | |
| Their strain is one of prayer | |
| For lives in passion dark, | |
| As sympathy to mark | 35 |
| With doubt and care. | |
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| But lighter through the air | |
| Are clamorous sounds of mirth, | |
| Ringing through heavens fair, | |
| As they the heralds were | 40 |
| Of joy to earth. * * * * * | |
III. In tumult all is lost,— | |
| Then sweeps a deeper gloom,— | |
| With shades, in phantom host, | |
| One moment seen,—then tossed | 45 |
| Back to their tomb. * * * * * | |
| The sun of morning shines | |
| Through windows jewelled bright, | |
| With the dim lamps its rays combines, | |
| And brings a promise to the shrines | 50 |
| Of heavenly light. | |
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| It crowns the column tall | |
| With brilliant wreath, | |
| Then streams upon the wall, | |
| Driving dark shades from all | 55 |
| The aisles beneath. | |
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| In the Cathedral hoary, | |
| So comes, with every morning, | |
| Such light, an offering holy | |
| To the Great God of Glory, | 60 |
| His house adorning. * * * * * | |
IV. Through the long nave is heard the measured tread | |
| Of the old priest, who early matins keeps, | |
| His sacred robe, in rustling folds outspread, | |
| Over the echoing pavement sweeps,— | 65 |
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| A sound awaking, like a trembling breath | |
| Of earnest yet unconscious prayer, | |
| Uprising from thick sepulchres beneath, | |
| A voice from Christian sleepers there. | |
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| Upon the altars burns the holy fire, | 70 |
| The censers swing on grating chains of gold, | |
| And from the farther depths of the dark choir | |
| Chants in sublimest echoings are rolled. | |
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| The people come in crowds, and, bending lowly, | |
| Thank their Great Maker for his mercies given; | 75 |
| Then raise their brows, flushed with emotion holy,— | |
| About them beams the light of opening heaven. | |
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| The priest repeats full many a solemn word, | |
| Made sacred to devotion through all time; | |
| The people kneel again, as each is heard, | 80 |
| Each cometh fraught with memories sublime. | |
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| The organ, from its golden trumpets blowing, | |
| Swells with their robust voices through the aisles, | |
| As from a mountain-fall wild waters flowing, | |
| Roll in sonorous waves and rippling smiles. | 85 |
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