Volume 5 — Original. Il Duomo

Faint with the sunny splendors of the king of light, Nature disrobes, and from her wearied shoulders casts The oppressive mantle of the burning day; Flings to the glowing west her regal diadem of fire; Upon her drooping brow all gladly binds The calm and holy moon; And with a zone of stars loops round her languid form The cool sweet robe of night: The placid moonbeams, o'er that stately fane, Pour the rich affluence of their silvery light, And with a chaste soft lustre, tint The graceful slender spires, The marble phalanx of the white-robed saints, The silent knights, the multitudinous flowers, The mother of our Lord, And all the wonders of that wondrous roof! With hushed and reverent step, through the wide doors I passed! Passed from the outer splendors to the inner mystic gloom Of the majestic pile; Through the emblazoned windows streams the tempered light, Showing dimly forth the shrines of holy men, The sacred emblems, and the fifty marvellous pillars, Dumb stony giants, who, with patient strength, Bear up the ponderous roof; Upon the altar steps I bend me down, and, awe-struck, rest. Suddenly, through the deep stillness Breathed a solemn sound, as sweet as mournful; A hand unseen ran o'er the organ's keys, And o'er the broad, dark air the harmonious waves Rolled grandly on! Entranced I heard, and soon the subtle strains Distilled within my soul a deep oblivion Of things terrestrial.

A vision came upon me, and I saw The darkness melt, the shades opaque dissolve, And the dull, sombre midnight change To day bright lustre! With soft and lambent flame the fifty columns glowed From base to branching head, And with supernal light pierced the thick denseness Of the arched roof: And I saw the innumerable leaves, The sculptured garlands of fair buds and flowers— Strewn with such lavish hand o'er all that broad parterre— With life-renewing tints endowed: The sacred vessels on the altar ranged, The pious gifts of ages passed away, And all the saintly relics of that holy place Glittered with new effulgence! Mine unused eyes drank in amazed the dazzling scene, And now upon mine ears arose the clang of music, And the sound of men rejoicing! From their huge stanchions 'scaped the massy doors, And through the enfranchised portal paced A wondrous train! A thousand mailèd knights, the Duomo's guards, Strode proudly in! As when in life they marched, so came they now; No marble corslets still their lofty hearts, Rich suits of Milan steel enclasp them round, Through the gold helmets' bars their dark eyes flash, Bright banners wave above them, and their hands Clasp as of old the trenchant blade! A stately white-robed troop, the Duomo's priests, The pageant swells. No rigid garb of stone impedes their solemn steps; Girt round with high, ecclesial pomp, The sacred aisles they pace, The jewelled crosiers grasp, the censers swing, And, as of yore, the glad "Hosannas" raise! Again the clash of steel, the armed tread, The banners' silken folds— And twice five hundred warriors Pass the gaping doors! Hark! in the air, a choir angelic sings: Wake, jubilant harps! peal, ye clarions of silver! Swell, ye loud organs! for mighty's the theme! Bend lowly the knee, ye saints, knights, and martyrs, With offerings of gold let the high altar gleam! Fill the gemmed censers with myrrh and with amber, Deck the rich shrines with a splendor ne'er seen, Raise high the song, the loud hymn of devotion, Give homage to Mary, our lady, our queen!

Loud glorias peal, and with reverberant blast, Throughout the illumined space, The silver trumpets clang! Doffed is the casque, the mitred head bent low, The song subsides, and on that marvellous crowd An awful silence dwells! A Presence is among them— A Being gracious as resplendent. And the resuscitate host is filled with holy terror! She smiles benignly on the kneeling throng, And melts with heavenly look the still, deep fear! Again the hymn breaks forth, With heavenly, earthly voices join, Monks, warriors, martyrs swell the raptured strain! Lo! where she comes, all meek, yet all noble, The glory celestial encircling her brows. Fall prostrate, ye thousands, all lowly adore her; Bare your swords, valiant knights, yet once make your vows; Chant paeans, ye priests; let the harmonies roll Till the gorgeous temple resounds to its veil. Through our midst she is moving, the chosen, the holy: Hail, Mary, Madonna, blest Virgin, all hail! The voices ceased, the echoes died away, The mighty pillars throbbed no more with flame; The roof closed in, the pageant vanished, And the darkness swathed once more The sombre nave. Still on the air the organ's notes float sad and wailing, Still through the storied windows streams the moon's soft light, Still rest the things of earth; The mute Colossi yet bear up The vaulted roof; The shrines still glimmer in the dim night air, The mystic glories of my vision Gone! Arthur Matthison.