I looked where late the Altar shone;
But the warrior-Kings were gone.
Each Shape had resumed his throne;
But the life had heavenward flown
Forth from each impassive stone.
I rose, and stole forth from the church,
And passed through that ancient porch,
Thoughtful, wrapt, and silently;
Like one who turns with restless eye
From some disturbing mystery;
A presence he durst not control,
That hath entered in his soul.
I paced toward the hoary Sea;
Beneath the stars the sheeted waves
Heaved opening like yawning graves;
I saw their blackening shrouds unrolled,
The white surge edged each sable fold;
I heard them break upon the shore;
Whose dirge was in their solemn roar.
My soul, filled with that deep sound
As of prophetic voices drowned
In thunder, sank in trance profound.