And we remember what Izaak Walton said of
quaint George Herbert,--how "some of the meaner sort of his parish did
so love and reverence Mr. Herbert, that they would let their plough rest
when his saints'-bell rung to prayer, that they might also offer their
devotion to God with him, and would then return back contented to their
plough." Now it seems to us that the spire is a perpetual elevation
of the Host, a never-ending lifting-up of the Symbol of Redemption, a
consecrating presence to field and cottage, hillside and highway, ever
ready to bless the accidental glance of wayfarer or laborer, and to make
in the desert of his daily life a momentary oasis of sweet and hallowed
thought. Its peaceful influence extends over the whole landscape and
pierces to its remotest corners.
"A gentler life spreads round the holy spires;
Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste retires,
And aery harvests crown the fertile lea."
It may be thought that St. Peter's cock, which so often answers the
sunbeams from the spindly spire, and kindles and glitters there like a
star, is rather empty of emblematic significance and soul-language.
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