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Along the hushed aisles, little frequented,
Except by feet on sacred service bent
At Sabbath's hour of praise or sacrament,
The gathering pastors move with quiet tread.
Such men! see what a lion in that head!
What passion in those eyes magnificent!
What pride in that imperial brow unbent!
This face, what grace and subtle charm inbred;
What power divine, with what transforming rod,
Has tamed these fiery spirits into peace,
And made them reapers in the fields of God,
With naught of strength's decay or fire's decrease?
Love, heavenly master of all arts to bless,
And Love, that turns all hearts to tenderness!

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