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Book, page 122 / 145 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.'"
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