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Treasury of Sacred Song
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CCLXII

WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,

With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd--

Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed Scholars only--this immense

And glorious Work of fine intelligence!

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely-calculated less or more;

--So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof

Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering--and wandering on as loth to die;

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof

That they were born for immortality.

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