[To TEE EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOR. "] SIR,—I make no
apology to you or your readers for quoting
in full a beautiful little poem overlooked by the writer of the interesting article " Ad Matrem " of October 14th :—
" There is a shrine whose golden gate
Was opened by the band of God It stands serene, inviolate, Though millions have its pavement trod; As fresh as when the first sunrise Awoke the lark in Paradise 'Tis compassed with the dust and toil Of common days, yet should there fall A single speck, a single soil, Upon the whiteness of its wall, The angels' tears in tender rain Would make the temple theirs again.
Without the world is tired and old, But once within the enchanted door, The mists of time are backward rolled, And creeds and ages are no more, But all the human-hearted meet In one Communion vast and sweet.
I enter : all is simply fair,
Nor incense clouds, nor carven throne, But in the fragrant morning air
A gentle lady sits alone ; My mother—ah ! whom should I see
Within, save ever only thee P "
—Digby Mackworth-Dolben
—I am, Sir, &c., R. C. DAITGLISH.
Poole's Hill, Bishop's Teignton, Devon.
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