ISleep, little baby, I love thee.Sleep, little king, I am bending above thee.How should I know what to singHere in my arms as I swing thee to sleep?Hushaby low,Rockaby so,Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring,Mother has only a kiss for her king!Why should my singing so make me to weep?Only I know that I love thee, I love thee,Love thee, my little one, sleep.IIIs it a dream? Ah yet, it seemsNot the same as other dreams!I can but think that angels sang,When thou wast born, in the starry sky,And that their golden harps out-rangWhile the silver clouds went by!The morning sun shuts out the stars,Which are much loftier than the sun;But, could we burst our prison-barsAnd find the Light whence light begun,The dreams that heralded thy birthWere truer than the truths of earth;And, by that far immortal Gleam,Soul of my soul, I still would dream!A ring of light was round thy head,The great-eyed oxen nigh thy bedTheir cold and innocent noses bowed!Their sweet breath rose like an incense cloudIn the blurred and mystic lanthorn light.About the middle of the nightThe black door blazed like some great starWith a glory from afar,Or like some mighty chrysoliteWherein an angel stood with whiteBlinding arrowy bladed wingsBefore the throne of the King of kings;And, through it, I could dimly seeA great steed tethered to a tree.Then, with crimson gems aflameThrough the door the three kings came,And the black Ethiop unrolledThe richly broidered cloth of gold,And pourèd forth before thee thereGold and frankincense and myrrh!IIISee, what a wonderful smile! Does it meanThat my little one knows of my love?Was it meant for an angel that passed unseen,And smiled at us both from above?Does it mean that he knows of the birds and the flowersThat are waiting to sweeten his childhood's hours,And the tales I shall tell and the games he will play,And the songs we shall sing and the prayers we shall prayIn his boyhood's May,He and I, one day?IVFor in the warm blue summer weatherWe shall laugh and love together:I shall watch my baby growing,I shall guide his feet,When the orange trees are blowingAnd the winds are heavy and sweet!When the orange orchards whitenI shall see his great eyes brightenTo watch the long-legged camels goingUp the twisted street,When the orange trees are blowingAnd the winds are sweet.What does it mean? Indeed, it seemsA dream! Yet not like other dreams!We shall walk in pleasant vales,Listening to the shepherd's songI shall tell him lovely talesAll day long:He shall laugh while mother singsTales of fishermen and kings.He shall see them come and goO'er the wistful sea,Where rosy oleanders blowRound blue Lake Galilee,Kings with fishers' ragged coatsAnd silver nets across their boats,Dipping through the starry glow,With crowns for him and me!Ah, no;Crowns for him, not me!Rockaby so! Indeed, it seemsA dream! Yet not like other dreams!VAh, see what a wonderful smile again!Shall I hide it away in my heart,To remember one day in a world of painWhen the years have torn us apart,Little babe,When the years have torn us apart?Sleep, my little one, sleep,Child with the wonderful eyes,Wild miraculous eyes,Deep as the skies are deep!What star-bright glory of tearsWaits in you now for the yearsThat shall bid you waken and weep?Ah, in that day, could I kiss you to sleepThen, little lips, little eyes,Little lips that are lovely and wise,Little lips that are dreadful and wise!VIClenched little hands like crumpled rosesDimpled and dear,Feet like flowers that the dawn uncloses,What do I fear?Little hands, will you ever be clenched in anguish?White little limbs, will you droop and languish?Nay, what do I hear?I hear a shouting, far away,You shall ride on a kingly palm-strewn waySome day!But when you are crowned with a golden crownAnd throned on a golden throne,You'll forget the manger of Bethlehem townAnd your mother that sits aloneWondering whether the mighty kingRemembers a song she used to sing,Long ago,"Rockaby so,Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring,Mother has only a kiss for her king!"...Ah, see what a wonderful smile, once more!He opens his great dark eyes!Little child, little king, nay, hush, it is o'erMy fear of those deep twin skies,—Little child,You are all too dreadful and wise!VIIBut now you are mine, all mine,And your feet can lie in my hand so small,And your tiny hands in my heart can twine,And you cannot walk, so you never shall fall,Or be pierced by the thorns beside the door,Or the nails that lie upon Joseph's floor;Through sun and rain, through shadow and shine,You are mine, all mine!
I
Sleep, little baby, I love thee.Sleep, little king, I am bending above thee.How should I know what to singHere in my arms as I swing thee to sleep?Hushaby low,Rockaby so,Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring,Mother has only a kiss for her king!Why should my singing so make me to weep?Only I know that I love thee, I love thee,Love thee, my little one, sleep.
II
Is it a dream? Ah yet, it seemsNot the same as other dreams!I can but think that angels sang,When thou wast born, in the starry sky,And that their golden harps out-rangWhile the silver clouds went by!
The morning sun shuts out the stars,Which are much loftier than the sun;But, could we burst our prison-barsAnd find the Light whence light begun,The dreams that heralded thy birthWere truer than the truths of earth;And, by that far immortal Gleam,Soul of my soul, I still would dream!
A ring of light was round thy head,The great-eyed oxen nigh thy bedTheir cold and innocent noses bowed!Their sweet breath rose like an incense cloudIn the blurred and mystic lanthorn light.
About the middle of the nightThe black door blazed like some great starWith a glory from afar,Or like some mighty chrysoliteWherein an angel stood with whiteBlinding arrowy bladed wingsBefore the throne of the King of kings;And, through it, I could dimly seeA great steed tethered to a tree.
Then, with crimson gems aflameThrough the door the three kings came,And the black Ethiop unrolledThe richly broidered cloth of gold,And pourèd forth before thee thereGold and frankincense and myrrh!
III
See, what a wonderful smile! Does it meanThat my little one knows of my love?Was it meant for an angel that passed unseen,And smiled at us both from above?Does it mean that he knows of the birds and the flowersThat are waiting to sweeten his childhood's hours,And the tales I shall tell and the games he will play,And the songs we shall sing and the prayers we shall prayIn his boyhood's May,He and I, one day?
IV
For in the warm blue summer weatherWe shall laugh and love together:I shall watch my baby growing,I shall guide his feet,When the orange trees are blowingAnd the winds are heavy and sweet!
When the orange orchards whitenI shall see his great eyes brightenTo watch the long-legged camels goingUp the twisted street,When the orange trees are blowingAnd the winds are sweet.
What does it mean? Indeed, it seemsA dream! Yet not like other dreams!
We shall walk in pleasant vales,Listening to the shepherd's songI shall tell him lovely talesAll day long:He shall laugh while mother singsTales of fishermen and kings.
He shall see them come and goO'er the wistful sea,Where rosy oleanders blowRound blue Lake Galilee,Kings with fishers' ragged coatsAnd silver nets across their boats,Dipping through the starry glow,With crowns for him and me!Ah, no;Crowns for him, not me!
Rockaby so! Indeed, it seemsA dream! Yet not like other dreams!
V
Ah, see what a wonderful smile again!Shall I hide it away in my heart,To remember one day in a world of painWhen the years have torn us apart,Little babe,When the years have torn us apart?
Sleep, my little one, sleep,Child with the wonderful eyes,Wild miraculous eyes,Deep as the skies are deep!What star-bright glory of tearsWaits in you now for the yearsThat shall bid you waken and weep?Ah, in that day, could I kiss you to sleepThen, little lips, little eyes,Little lips that are lovely and wise,Little lips that are dreadful and wise!
VI
Clenched little hands like crumpled rosesDimpled and dear,Feet like flowers that the dawn uncloses,What do I fear?Little hands, will you ever be clenched in anguish?White little limbs, will you droop and languish?Nay, what do I hear?I hear a shouting, far away,You shall ride on a kingly palm-strewn waySome day!
But when you are crowned with a golden crownAnd throned on a golden throne,You'll forget the manger of Bethlehem townAnd your mother that sits alone
Wondering whether the mighty kingRemembers a song she used to sing,Long ago,"Rockaby so,Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring,Mother has only a kiss for her king!"...
Ah, see what a wonderful smile, once more!He opens his great dark eyes!Little child, little king, nay, hush, it is o'erMy fear of those deep twin skies,—Little child,You are all too dreadful and wise!
VII
But now you are mine, all mine,And your feet can lie in my hand so small,And your tiny hands in my heart can twine,And you cannot walk, so you never shall fall,Or be pierced by the thorns beside the door,Or the nails that lie upon Joseph's floor;Through sun and rain, through shadow and shine,You are mine, all mine!
In the Black Country, from a little window,Before I slept, across the haggard wastesOf dust and ashes, I saw Titanic shaftsLike shadowy columns of wan-hope ariseTo waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreathsOf smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.Then, as night deepened, the blast-furnaces,Red smears upon the sulphurous blackness, turnedAll that sad region to a City of Dis,Where naked, sweating giants all night longBowed their strong necks, melted flesh, blood and bone,To brim the dry ducts of the gods of gloomWith terrible rivers, branches of living gold.O, like some tragic gesture of great soulsIn agony, those awful columns toweredAgainst the clouds, that city of ash and slagAssumed the grandeur of some direr ThebesArising to the death-chant of those gods,A dreadful Order climbing from the darkOf Chaos and Corruption, threatening to takeHeaven with its vast slow storm.I slept, and dreamed.And like the slow beats of some Titan heartBuried beneath immeasurable woes,The forging-hammers thudded through the dream:Huge on a fallen tree,Lost in the darkness of primeval woods,Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,The naked giant, brooded all alone.Born of the lower earth, he knew not how,Born of the mire and clay, he knew not when,Brought forth in darkness, and he knew not why!Thus, like a wind, went by a thousand years.Anhungered, yet no comrade of the wolf,And cold, but with no power upon the sun,A master of this world that mastered him!Thus, like a cloud, went by a thousand years.Whochained this other giant in his heartThat heaved and burned like Etna? HeavilyHe bent his brows and wondered and was dumb.And, like one wave, a thousand years went by.He raised his matted head and scanned the stars.He stood erect! He lifted his uncouth arms!With inarticulate sounds his uncouth lipsWrestled and strove—I am full-fed, and yetI hunger!Who set this fiercer famine in my maw?Can I eat moons, gorge on the Milky Way,Swill sunsets down, or sup the wash of the dawnOut of the rolling swine-troughs of the sea?Can I drink oceans, lie beneath the mountains,And nuzzle their heavy boulders like a cubSucking the dark teats of the tigress? Who,Who set this deeper hunger in my heart?And the dark forest echoed—Who? Ah, who?"I hunger!"And the night-wind answered him,"Hunt, then, for food.""I hunger!"And the sleek gorged lionessDrew nigh him, dripping freshly from the kill,Redder her lolling tongue, whiter her fangs,And gazed with ignorant eyes of golden flame."I hunger!"Like a breaking sea his crySwept through the night. Against his swarthy kneesShe rubbed the red wet velvet of her earsWith mellow thunders of unweeting bliss,Purring—Ah, seek, and you shall find.Ah, seek, and you shall slaughter, gorge, ah seek,Seek, seek, you shall feed full, ah seek, ah seek.Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,Bewildered like a desert-pilgrim, sawA rosy City, opening in the clouds,The hunger-born mirage of his own heart,Far, far above the world, a home of gods,Where One, a goddess, veiled in the sleek wavesOf her deep hair, yet glimmering golden through,Lifted, with radiant arms, ambrosial foodFor hunger such as this! Up the dark hills,He rushed, a thunder-cloud,Urged by the famine of his heart. He stoodHigh on the topmost crags, he hailed the godsIn thunder, and the clouds re-echoed it!He hailed the gods!And like a sea of thunder round their thronesWashing, a midnight sea, his earth-born voiceBesieged the halls of heaven! He hailed the gods!They laughed, he heard them laugh!With echo and re-echo, far and wide,A golden sea of mockery, they laughed!Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,Laid hold upon the rosy Gates of Heaven,And shook them with gigantic sooty hands,Asking he knew not what, but not for alms;And the Gates, opened as in jest;And, like a sooty jest, he stumbled in.Round him the gods, the young and scornful gods,Clustered and laughed to mark the ravaged face,The brutal brows, the deep and dog-like eyes,The blunt black nails, and back with burdens bowed.And, when they laughed, he snarled with uncouth lipsAnd made them laugh again."Whence comest thou?"He could not speak!How should he speak whose heart within him heavedAnd burned like Etna? Through his mouth there cameA sound of ice-bergs in a frozen seaOf tears, a sullen region of black iceRending and breaking, very far away.They laughed!He stared at them, bewildered, and they laughedAgain, "Whence comest thou?"He could not speak!But through his mouth a moan of midnight woods,Where wild beasts lay in wait to slaughter and gorge,A moan of forest-caverns where the wolfBrought forth her litter, a moan of the wild earthIn travail with strange shapes of mire and clay,Creatures of clay, clay images of the gods,That hungered like the gods, the most high gods,But found no food, and perished like the beasts.And the gods laughed,—Art thou, then, such a god?And, like a leafUnfolding in dark woods, in his deep brainA sudden memory woke; and like an apeHe nodded, and all heaven with laughter rocked,While Artemis cried out with scornful lips,—Perchance He is the Maker of you all!Then, piteously outstretching calloused hands,He sank upon his knees, his huge gnarled knees,And echoed, falteringly, with slow harsh tongue,—Perchance, perchance, the Maker of you all.They wept with laughter! And Aphrodite, she,With keener mockery than white ArtemisWho smiled aloof, drew nigh him unabashedIn all her blinding beauty. Carelessly,As o'er the brute brows of a stallèd oxAcross that sooty muzzle and brawny breast,Contemptuously, she swept her golden hairIn one deep wave, a many-millioned scourgeIntolerable and beautiful as fire;Then turned and left him, reeling, gasping, dumb,While heaven re-echoed and re-echoed,See,Perchance, perchance, the Maker of us all!Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,Rose to his feet, and with one terrible cry"I hunger," rushed upon the scornful godsAnd strove to seize and hold them with his hands,And still the laughter deepened as they rolledTheir clouds around them, baffling him. But once,Once with a shout, in his gigantic armsHe crushed a slippery splendour on his breastAnd felt on his harsh skin the cool smooth peaksOf Aphrodite's bosom. One black handSlid down the naked snow of her long sideAnd bruised it where he held her. Then, like snowVanishing in a furnace, out of his armsThe splendour suddenly melted, and a rollOf thunder split the dream, and headlong downHe fell, from heaven to earth; while, overheadThe young and scornful gods—he heard them laugh!—Toppled the crags down after him. He laySupine. They plucked up Etna by the rootsAnd buried him beneath it. His broad breastHeaved, like that other giant in his heart,And through the crater burst his fiery breath,But could not burst his bonds. And so he layBreathing in agony thrice a thousand years.Then came a Voice, he knew not whence, "Arise,Enceladus!" And from his heart a cragFell, and one arm was free, and one thought free,And suddenly he awoke, and stood upright,Shaking the mountains from him like a dream;And the tremendous light and awful truthSmote, like the dawn, upon his blinded eyes,That out of his first wonder at the world,Out of his own heart's deep humility,And simple worship, he had fashioned godsOf cloud, and heaven out of a hollow shell.And groping now no more in the empty spaceOutward, but inward in his own deep heart,He suddenly felt the secret gates of heavenOpen, and from the infinite heavens of hopeInward, a voice, from the innermost courts of Love,Rang—Thou shall have none other gods but Me.Enceladus, the foul Enceladus,When the clear light out of that inward heavenWhose gates are only inward in the soul,Showed him that one true Kingdom, said,"I will stretchMy hands out once again. And, as the GodThat made me is the Heart within my heart,So shall my heart be to this dust and earthA god and a creator. I will striveWith mountains, fires and seas, wrestle and strive,Fashion and make, and that which I have madeIn anguish I shall love as God loves me."In the Black Country, from a little window,Waking at dawn, I saw those giant Shafts—O great dark word out of our elder speech,Long since the poor man's kingly heritage—The Shapings, the dim Sceptres of Creation,The Shafts like columns of wan-hope ariseTo waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreathsOf smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.Then, as the dawn crimsoned, the sordid clouds,The puddling furnaces, the mounds of slag,The cinders, and the sand-beds and the rowsOf wretched roofs, assumed a majestyBeyond all majesties of earth or air;Beauty beyond all beauty, as of a childIn rags, upraised thro' the still gold of heaven,With wasted arms and hungering eyes, to bringThe armoured seraphim down upon their kneesAnd teach eternal God humility;The solemn beauty of the unfulfilledMoving towards fulfilment on a heightBeyond all heights; the dreadful beauty of hope;The naked wrestler struggling from the rockUnder the sculptor's chisel; the rough massOf clay more glorious for the poor blind faceAnd bosom that half emerge into the light,More glorious and august, even in defeat,Than that too cold dominion God foresworeTo bear this passionate universal load,This Calvary of Creation, with mankind.
In the Black Country, from a little window,Before I slept, across the haggard wastesOf dust and ashes, I saw Titanic shaftsLike shadowy columns of wan-hope ariseTo waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreathsOf smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.Then, as night deepened, the blast-furnaces,Red smears upon the sulphurous blackness, turnedAll that sad region to a City of Dis,Where naked, sweating giants all night longBowed their strong necks, melted flesh, blood and bone,To brim the dry ducts of the gods of gloomWith terrible rivers, branches of living gold.
O, like some tragic gesture of great soulsIn agony, those awful columns toweredAgainst the clouds, that city of ash and slagAssumed the grandeur of some direr ThebesArising to the death-chant of those gods,A dreadful Order climbing from the darkOf Chaos and Corruption, threatening to takeHeaven with its vast slow storm.I slept, and dreamed.And like the slow beats of some Titan heartBuried beneath immeasurable woes,The forging-hammers thudded through the dream:
Huge on a fallen tree,Lost in the darkness of primeval woods,Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,The naked giant, brooded all alone.Born of the lower earth, he knew not how,Born of the mire and clay, he knew not when,Brought forth in darkness, and he knew not why!
Thus, like a wind, went by a thousand years.
Anhungered, yet no comrade of the wolf,And cold, but with no power upon the sun,A master of this world that mastered him!
Thus, like a cloud, went by a thousand years.
Whochained this other giant in his heartThat heaved and burned like Etna? HeavilyHe bent his brows and wondered and was dumb.
And, like one wave, a thousand years went by.
He raised his matted head and scanned the stars.He stood erect! He lifted his uncouth arms!With inarticulate sounds his uncouth lipsWrestled and strove—I am full-fed, and yetI hunger!Who set this fiercer famine in my maw?
Can I eat moons, gorge on the Milky Way,Swill sunsets down, or sup the wash of the dawnOut of the rolling swine-troughs of the sea?Can I drink oceans, lie beneath the mountains,And nuzzle their heavy boulders like a cubSucking the dark teats of the tigress? Who,Who set this deeper hunger in my heart?And the dark forest echoed—Who? Ah, who?
"I hunger!"And the night-wind answered him,"Hunt, then, for food."
"I hunger!"And the sleek gorged lionessDrew nigh him, dripping freshly from the kill,Redder her lolling tongue, whiter her fangs,And gazed with ignorant eyes of golden flame.
"I hunger!"Like a breaking sea his crySwept through the night. Against his swarthy kneesShe rubbed the red wet velvet of her earsWith mellow thunders of unweeting bliss,Purring—Ah, seek, and you shall find.Ah, seek, and you shall slaughter, gorge, ah seek,Seek, seek, you shall feed full, ah seek, ah seek.
Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,Bewildered like a desert-pilgrim, sawA rosy City, opening in the clouds,The hunger-born mirage of his own heart,Far, far above the world, a home of gods,Where One, a goddess, veiled in the sleek wavesOf her deep hair, yet glimmering golden through,Lifted, with radiant arms, ambrosial foodFor hunger such as this! Up the dark hills,He rushed, a thunder-cloud,Urged by the famine of his heart. He stoodHigh on the topmost crags, he hailed the godsIn thunder, and the clouds re-echoed it!
He hailed the gods!And like a sea of thunder round their thronesWashing, a midnight sea, his earth-born voiceBesieged the halls of heaven! He hailed the gods!They laughed, he heard them laugh!With echo and re-echo, far and wide,A golden sea of mockery, they laughed!
Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,Laid hold upon the rosy Gates of Heaven,And shook them with gigantic sooty hands,Asking he knew not what, but not for alms;And the Gates, opened as in jest;And, like a sooty jest, he stumbled in.
Round him the gods, the young and scornful gods,Clustered and laughed to mark the ravaged face,The brutal brows, the deep and dog-like eyes,The blunt black nails, and back with burdens bowed.And, when they laughed, he snarled with uncouth lipsAnd made them laugh again."Whence comest thou?"He could not speak!How should he speak whose heart within him heavedAnd burned like Etna? Through his mouth there cameA sound of ice-bergs in a frozen seaOf tears, a sullen region of black iceRending and breaking, very far away.They laughed!He stared at them, bewildered, and they laughedAgain, "Whence comest thou?"
He could not speak!But through his mouth a moan of midnight woods,Where wild beasts lay in wait to slaughter and gorge,A moan of forest-caverns where the wolfBrought forth her litter, a moan of the wild earthIn travail with strange shapes of mire and clay,Creatures of clay, clay images of the gods,That hungered like the gods, the most high gods,But found no food, and perished like the beasts.
And the gods laughed,—Art thou, then, such a god?And, like a leafUnfolding in dark woods, in his deep brainA sudden memory woke; and like an apeHe nodded, and all heaven with laughter rocked,While Artemis cried out with scornful lips,—Perchance He is the Maker of you all!
Then, piteously outstretching calloused hands,He sank upon his knees, his huge gnarled knees,And echoed, falteringly, with slow harsh tongue,—Perchance, perchance, the Maker of you all.
They wept with laughter! And Aphrodite, she,With keener mockery than white ArtemisWho smiled aloof, drew nigh him unabashedIn all her blinding beauty. Carelessly,As o'er the brute brows of a stallèd oxAcross that sooty muzzle and brawny breast,Contemptuously, she swept her golden hairIn one deep wave, a many-millioned scourgeIntolerable and beautiful as fire;Then turned and left him, reeling, gasping, dumb,While heaven re-echoed and re-echoed,See,Perchance, perchance, the Maker of us all!
Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus,Rose to his feet, and with one terrible cry"I hunger," rushed upon the scornful godsAnd strove to seize and hold them with his hands,And still the laughter deepened as they rolledTheir clouds around them, baffling him. But once,Once with a shout, in his gigantic armsHe crushed a slippery splendour on his breastAnd felt on his harsh skin the cool smooth peaksOf Aphrodite's bosom. One black handSlid down the naked snow of her long sideAnd bruised it where he held her. Then, like snowVanishing in a furnace, out of his armsThe splendour suddenly melted, and a rollOf thunder split the dream, and headlong downHe fell, from heaven to earth; while, overheadThe young and scornful gods—he heard them laugh!—Toppled the crags down after him. He laySupine. They plucked up Etna by the rootsAnd buried him beneath it. His broad breastHeaved, like that other giant in his heart,And through the crater burst his fiery breath,But could not burst his bonds. And so he layBreathing in agony thrice a thousand years.
Then came a Voice, he knew not whence, "Arise,Enceladus!" And from his heart a cragFell, and one arm was free, and one thought free,And suddenly he awoke, and stood upright,Shaking the mountains from him like a dream;And the tremendous light and awful truthSmote, like the dawn, upon his blinded eyes,That out of his first wonder at the world,Out of his own heart's deep humility,And simple worship, he had fashioned godsOf cloud, and heaven out of a hollow shell.And groping now no more in the empty spaceOutward, but inward in his own deep heart,He suddenly felt the secret gates of heavenOpen, and from the infinite heavens of hopeInward, a voice, from the innermost courts of Love,Rang—Thou shall have none other gods but Me.
Enceladus, the foul Enceladus,When the clear light out of that inward heavenWhose gates are only inward in the soul,Showed him that one true Kingdom, said,"I will stretchMy hands out once again. And, as the GodThat made me is the Heart within my heart,So shall my heart be to this dust and earthA god and a creator. I will striveWith mountains, fires and seas, wrestle and strive,Fashion and make, and that which I have madeIn anguish I shall love as God loves me."
In the Black Country, from a little window,Waking at dawn, I saw those giant Shafts—O great dark word out of our elder speech,Long since the poor man's kingly heritage—The Shapings, the dim Sceptres of Creation,The Shafts like columns of wan-hope ariseTo waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreathsOf smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers.Then, as the dawn crimsoned, the sordid clouds,The puddling furnaces, the mounds of slag,The cinders, and the sand-beds and the rowsOf wretched roofs, assumed a majestyBeyond all majesties of earth or air;Beauty beyond all beauty, as of a childIn rags, upraised thro' the still gold of heaven,With wasted arms and hungering eyes, to bringThe armoured seraphim down upon their kneesAnd teach eternal God humility;The solemn beauty of the unfulfilledMoving towards fulfilment on a heightBeyond all heights; the dreadful beauty of hope;The naked wrestler struggling from the rockUnder the sculptor's chisel; the rough massOf clay more glorious for the poor blind faceAnd bosom that half emerge into the light,More glorious and august, even in defeat,Than that too cold dominion God foresworeTo bear this passionate universal load,This Calvary of Creation, with mankind.
IIn the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers waken,When the labourers turn them homeward, and the weary have their will,When the censers of the roses o'er the forest-aisles are shaken,Is it but the wind that cometh o'er the far green hill?IIFor they say 'tis but the sunset winds that wander through the heather,Rustle all the meadow-grass and bend the dewy fern;They say 'tis but the winds that bow the reeds in prayer together,And fill the shaken pools with fire along the shadowy burn.IIIIn the beauty of the twilight, in the Garden that He loveth,They have veiled His lovely vesture with the darkness of a name!Thro' His Garden, thro' His Garden it is but the wind that moveth,No more; but O, the miracle, the miracle is the same!IVIn the cool of the evening, when the sky is an old storySlowly dying, but remembered, ay, and loved with passion still,Hush!... the fringes of His garment, in the fading golden glory,Softly rustling as He cometh o'er the far green hill.
I
In the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers waken,When the labourers turn them homeward, and the weary have their will,When the censers of the roses o'er the forest-aisles are shaken,Is it but the wind that cometh o'er the far green hill?
II
For they say 'tis but the sunset winds that wander through the heather,Rustle all the meadow-grass and bend the dewy fern;They say 'tis but the winds that bow the reeds in prayer together,And fill the shaken pools with fire along the shadowy burn.
III
In the beauty of the twilight, in the Garden that He loveth,They have veiled His lovely vesture with the darkness of a name!Thro' His Garden, thro' His Garden it is but the wind that moveth,No more; but O, the miracle, the miracle is the same!
IV
In the cool of the evening, when the sky is an old storySlowly dying, but remembered, ay, and loved with passion still,Hush!... the fringes of His garment, in the fading golden glory,Softly rustling as He cometh o'er the far green hill.
IHow beautiful is the battle,How splendid are the spears,When our banner is the skyAnd our watchwordLiberty,And our kingdom lifted high above the years.IIHow purple shall our blood be,How glorious our scars,When we lie there in the nightWith our faces full of lightAnd the death upon them smiling at the stars.IIIHow golden is our hauberk,And steel, and steel our sword,And our shield without a stainAs we take the field again,We whose armour is the armour of the Lord!
I
How beautiful is the battle,How splendid are the spears,When our banner is the skyAnd our watchwordLiberty,And our kingdom lifted high above the years.
II
How purple shall our blood be,How glorious our scars,When we lie there in the nightWith our faces full of lightAnd the death upon them smiling at the stars.
III
How golden is our hauberk,And steel, and steel our sword,And our shield without a stainAs we take the field again,We whose armour is the armour of the Lord!
"The shrines are dust, the gods are dead,"They cried in ancient Rome!"Ah yet, the Idalian rose is red,And bright the Paphian foam:For all your Galilæan tearsWe turn to her," men say ...But we, we hasten thro' the yearsTo our own yesterday.Thro' all the thousand years ye needTo make the lost so fair,Before ye can award His meedOf perfect praise and prayer!Ye liberated souls, the crownIs yours; and yet, some fewCan hail, as this great Cross goes downIts distant triumph, too.Poor scornful Lilliputian souls,And are ye still too proudTo risk your little aureolesBy kneeling with the crowd?Do ye still dream ye "stand alone"So fearless and so strong?To-day we claim the rebels' throneAnd leave you with the throng.Yes, He has conquered! You at leastThe "van-guard" leaves behindTo croon old tales of king and priestIn the ingles of mankind:The breast of Aphrodite glows,Apollo's face is fair;But O, the world's wide anguish knowsNo Apollonian prayer.Not ours to scorn the first white gleamOf beauty on this earth,The clouds of dawn, the nectarous dream,The gods of simpler birth;But, as ye praise them, your own cryIs fraught with deeper pain,And the Compassionate ye denyReturns, returns again.O, worshippers of the beautiful,Is this the end then, this,—That ye can only see the skullBeneath the face of bliss?No monk in the dark years ye scornSo barren a pathway trodAs ye who, ceasing not to mourn,Deny the mourner's God.And, while ye scoff, on every sideGreat hints of Him go by,—Souls that are hourly crucifiedOn some new Calvary!O, tortured faces, white and meek,Half seen amidst the crowd,Grey suffering lips that never speak,The Glory in the Cloud!In flower and dust, in chaff and grain,He binds Himself and dies!We live by His eternal pain,His hourly sacrifice;The limits of our mortal lifeAre His.The whisper thrillsUnder the sea's perpetual strife,And through the sunburnt hills.Darkly, as in a glass, our sightStill gropes thro' Time and Space:We cannot see the Light of LightWith angels, face to face:Only the tale His martyrs tellAround the dark earth ringsHe died and He went down to hellAnd lives—the King of Kings!And, while ye scoff, from shore to shore,From sea to moaning sea,Eloi,Eloi, goes up once moreLama sabacthani!The heavens are like a scroll unfurled,The writing flames above—This is the King of all the worldUpon His Cross of Love.
"The shrines are dust, the gods are dead,"They cried in ancient Rome!"Ah yet, the Idalian rose is red,And bright the Paphian foam:For all your Galilæan tearsWe turn to her," men say ...But we, we hasten thro' the yearsTo our own yesterday.
Thro' all the thousand years ye needTo make the lost so fair,Before ye can award His meedOf perfect praise and prayer!Ye liberated souls, the crownIs yours; and yet, some fewCan hail, as this great Cross goes downIts distant triumph, too.
Poor scornful Lilliputian souls,And are ye still too proudTo risk your little aureolesBy kneeling with the crowd?Do ye still dream ye "stand alone"So fearless and so strong?To-day we claim the rebels' throneAnd leave you with the throng.
Yes, He has conquered! You at leastThe "van-guard" leaves behindTo croon old tales of king and priestIn the ingles of mankind:The breast of Aphrodite glows,Apollo's face is fair;But O, the world's wide anguish knowsNo Apollonian prayer.
Not ours to scorn the first white gleamOf beauty on this earth,The clouds of dawn, the nectarous dream,The gods of simpler birth;But, as ye praise them, your own cryIs fraught with deeper pain,And the Compassionate ye denyReturns, returns again.
O, worshippers of the beautiful,Is this the end then, this,—That ye can only see the skullBeneath the face of bliss?No monk in the dark years ye scornSo barren a pathway trodAs ye who, ceasing not to mourn,Deny the mourner's God.
And, while ye scoff, on every sideGreat hints of Him go by,—Souls that are hourly crucifiedOn some new Calvary!O, tortured faces, white and meek,Half seen amidst the crowd,Grey suffering lips that never speak,The Glory in the Cloud!
In flower and dust, in chaff and grain,He binds Himself and dies!We live by His eternal pain,His hourly sacrifice;The limits of our mortal lifeAre His.The whisper thrillsUnder the sea's perpetual strife,And through the sunburnt hills.
Darkly, as in a glass, our sightStill gropes thro' Time and Space:We cannot see the Light of LightWith angels, face to face:Only the tale His martyrs tellAround the dark earth ringsHe died and He went down to hellAnd lives—the King of Kings!
And, while ye scoff, from shore to shore,From sea to moaning sea,Eloi,Eloi, goes up once moreLama sabacthani!The heavens are like a scroll unfurled,The writing flames above—This is the King of all the worldUpon His Cross of Love.
IEngland, my mother,Lift to my western sweetheartOne full cup of English mead, breathing of the may!Pledge the may-flower in her face that you and ah, none other,Sent her from the mother-landAcross the dashing spray.IIHers and yours the story:Think of it, oh, think of it—That immortal dream when El Dorado flushed the skies!Fill the beaker full and drink to Drake's undying glory,Yours and hers (Oh, drink of it!)The dream that never dies.IIIYours and hers the free-menWho scanned the stars and westward sungWhen a king commanded and the Atlantic thundered "Nay!"Hers as yours the pride is, for Drake our first of seamenFirst upon his bow-sprit hungThat bunch of English may.IVPledge her deep, my mother;Through her veins thy life-stream runs!Spare a thought, too, sweetheart, for my mother o'er the sea!Younger eyes are yours; but ah, those old eyes and none otherOnce bedewed the may-flower; once,As yours, were clear and free.VOnce! Nay, now as everBeats within her ancient heartAll the faith that took you forth to seek your heaven alone:Shadows come and go; but let no shade of doubt dissever,Cloak, or cloud, or keep apartTwo souls whose prayer is one.VISweetheart, ah, be tender—Tender with her prayer to-night!Such a goal might yet be ours!—the battle-flags be furled,All the wars of earth be crushed, if only now your slenderHand should grasp her gnarled old handAnd federate the world.VIIFoolish it may seem, sweet!Still the battle thunder lours:Darker look the Dreadnoughts as old Europe goes her way!Yet your hand, your hand, has power to crush that evil dream, sweet;You, with younger eyes than oursAnd brows of English may.VIIIIf a singer cherishesIdle dreams or idle words,You shall judge—and you'll forgive: for, far away or nigh,Still abides that Vision without which a people perishes:Love will strike the atoning chords!Hark—there comes a cry!IXOver all this earth, sweet,The poor and weak look up to you—Lift their burdened shoulders, stretch their fettered hands in prayer:You, with gentle hands, can bring the world-wide dream to birth, sweet,While I lift this cup to youAnd wonder—will she care?XKindle, eyes, and beat, heart!Hold the brimming breaker up!All the may is burgeoning from East to golden West!England, my mother, greet America, my sweetheart:—Ah, but ere I drained the cupI found her on your breast.
I
England, my mother,Lift to my western sweetheartOne full cup of English mead, breathing of the may!Pledge the may-flower in her face that you and ah, none other,Sent her from the mother-landAcross the dashing spray.
II
Hers and yours the story:Think of it, oh, think of it—That immortal dream when El Dorado flushed the skies!Fill the beaker full and drink to Drake's undying glory,Yours and hers (Oh, drink of it!)The dream that never dies.
III
Yours and hers the free-menWho scanned the stars and westward sungWhen a king commanded and the Atlantic thundered "Nay!"Hers as yours the pride is, for Drake our first of seamenFirst upon his bow-sprit hungThat bunch of English may.
IV
Pledge her deep, my mother;Through her veins thy life-stream runs!Spare a thought, too, sweetheart, for my mother o'er the sea!Younger eyes are yours; but ah, those old eyes and none otherOnce bedewed the may-flower; once,As yours, were clear and free.
V
Once! Nay, now as everBeats within her ancient heartAll the faith that took you forth to seek your heaven alone:Shadows come and go; but let no shade of doubt dissever,Cloak, or cloud, or keep apartTwo souls whose prayer is one.
VI
Sweetheart, ah, be tender—Tender with her prayer to-night!Such a goal might yet be ours!—the battle-flags be furled,All the wars of earth be crushed, if only now your slenderHand should grasp her gnarled old handAnd federate the world.
VII
Foolish it may seem, sweet!Still the battle thunder lours:Darker look the Dreadnoughts as old Europe goes her way!Yet your hand, your hand, has power to crush that evil dream, sweet;You, with younger eyes than oursAnd brows of English may.
VIII
If a singer cherishesIdle dreams or idle words,You shall judge—and you'll forgive: for, far away or nigh,Still abides that Vision without which a people perishes:Love will strike the atoning chords!Hark—there comes a cry!
IX
Over all this earth, sweet,The poor and weak look up to you—Lift their burdened shoulders, stretch their fettered hands in prayer:You, with gentle hands, can bring the world-wide dream to birth, sweet,While I lift this cup to youAnd wonder—will she care?
X
Kindle, eyes, and beat, heart!Hold the brimming breaker up!All the may is burgeoning from East to golden West!England, my mother, greet America, my sweetheart:—Ah, but ere I drained the cupI found her on your breast.
When on the highest ridge of that strange land,Under the cloudless blinding tropic blue,Drake and his band of swarthy seamen stoodWith dazed eyes gazing round them, emerald fansOf palm that fell like fountains over cliffsOf gorgeous red anana bloom obscuredTheir sight on every side. Illustrious gleamsOf rose and green and gold streamed from the plumesThat flashed like living rainbows through the glades.Piratic glints of musketoon and sword,The scarlet scarves around the tawny throats,The bright gold ear-rings in the sun-black ears,And the calm faces of the negro guidesOpposed their barbarous bravery to the noon;Yet a deep silence dreadfully besiegedEven those mighty hearts upon the vergeOf the undiscovered world. Behind them layThe old earth they knew. In front they could not seeWhat lay beyond the ridge. Only they heardCries of the painted birds troubling the heatAnd shivering through the woods; till Francis DrakePlunged through the hush, took hold upon a tree,The tallest near them, and clomb upward, branchBy branch.And there, as he swung clear aboveThe steep-down forest, on his wondering eyes,Mile upon mile of rugged shimmering gold,Burst the unknown immeasurable sea.Then he descended; and with a new voiceVowed that, God helping, he would one day ploughThose virgin waters with an English keel.So here before the unattempted task,Above the Golden Ocean of my dreamI clomb and saw in splendid pageant passThe wild adventures and heroic deedsOf England's epic age, a vision litWith mighty prophecies, fraught with a doomWorthy the great Homeric roll of song,Yet all unsung and unrecorded quiteBy those who might have touched with Raphael's handThe large imperial legend of our race,Ere it brought forth the braggarts of an hour,Self-worshippers who love their imaged strength,And as a symbol for their own proud selvesMisuse the sacred name of this dear land,While England to the Empire of her soulLike some great Prophet passes through the crowdThat cannot understand; for he must climbUp to that sovran thunder-smitten peakWhere he shall grave and trench on adamantThe Law that God shall utter by the stillSmall voice, not by the whirlwind or the fire.There labouring for the Highest in himselfHe shall achieve the good of all mankind;And from that lonely Sinai shall returnTriumphant o'er the little gods of goldThat rule their little hour upon the plain.Oh, thou blind master of these opened eyesBe near me, therefore, now; for not in prideI lift lame hands to this imperious theme;But yearning to a power above mine ownEven as a man might lift his hands in prayer.Or as a child, perchance, in those dark daysWhen London lay beleaguered and the axeFlashed out for a bigot empire; and the bloodOf martyrs made a purple path for SpainUp to the throne of Mary; as a childGathering with friends upon a winter's mornFor some mock fight between the hateful princePhilip and Thomas Wyatt, all at onceMight see in gorgeous ruffs embastionedPopinjay plumes and slouching hats of Spain,Gay shimmering silks and rich encrusted gems,Gold collars, rare brocades, and sleek trunk-hoseThe Ambassador and peacock courtiers comeStrutting along the white snow-strangled street,A walking plot of scarlet Spanish flowers,And with one cry a hundred boyish handsPut them to flight with snowballs, while the windAll round their Spanish ears hissed like a flightOf white-winged geese; so may I wage perchanceA mimic war with all my heart in it,Munitioned with mere perishable snowWhich mightier hands one day will urge with steel.Yet may they still remember me as IRemember, with one little laugh of love,That child's game, this were wealth enough for me.Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer;Help me that I may tell the enduring taleOf that great seaman, good at need, who firstSailed round this globe and made one little isle,One little isle against that huge EmpireOf Spain whose might was paramount on earth,O'ertopping Babylon, Nineveh, Greece, and Rome,Carthage and all huge Empires of the past,He made this little isle, against the world,Queen of the earth and sea. Nor this aloneThe theme; for, in a mightier strife engagedEven than he knew, he fought for the new faiths,Championing our manhood as it roseAnd cast its feudal chains before the seatOf kings; nay, in a mightier battle yetHe fought for the soul's freedom, fought the fightWhich, though it still rings in our wondering ears,Was won then and for ever—that great war,That last Crusade of Christ against His priests,Wherein Spain fell behind a thunderous roarOf ocean triumph over burning shipsAnd shattered fleets, while England, England rose,Her white cliffs laughing out across the waves,Victorious over all her enemies.And while he won the world for her domain,Her loins brought forth, her fostering bosom fedSouls that have swept the spiritual seasFrom heaven to hell, and justified her crown.For round the throne of great ElizabethSpenser and Burleigh, Sidney and Verulam,Clustered like stars, rare Jonson like the crownOf Cassiopeia, Marlowe ruddy as Mars,And over all those mighty hearts aroseThe soul of Shakespeare brooding far and wideBeyond our small horizons, like a lightThrown from a vaster sun that still illumesTracts which the arc of our increasing dayMust still leave undiscovered, unexplored.Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer,As thou didst touch the heart and light the flameOf wonder in those eyes which first awokeTo beauty and the sea's adventurous dreamThree hundred years ago, three hundred years,And five long decades, in the leafy lanesOf Devon, where the tallest trees that boreThe raven's matted nest had yielded upTheir booty, while the perilous branches swayedBeneath the boyish privateer, the kingOf many young companions, Francis Drake;So hear me, and so help, for more than hisMy need is, even than when he first set sailUpon that wild adventure with three shipsAnd three-score men from grey old Plymouth Sound,Not knowing if he went to life or death,Not caring greatly, so that he were trueTo his own sleepless and unfaltering soulWhich could not choose but hear the ringing callAcross the splendours of the Spanish MainFrom ever fading, ever new horizons,And shores beyond the sunset and the sea.Mother and sweetheart, England; from whose breast,With all the world before them, they went forth,Thy seamen, o'er the wide uncharted waste,Wider than that Ulysses roamed of old,Even as the wine-dark MediterraneanIs wider than some wave-relinquished poolAmong its rocks, yet none the less exploredTo greater ends than all the pride of GreeceAnd pomp of Rome achieved; if my poor songNow spread too wide a sail, forgive thy sonAnd lover, for thy love was ever wontTo lift men up in pride above themselvesTo do great deeds which of themselves aloneThey could not; thou hast led the unfaltering feetOf even thy meanest heroes down to death,Lifted poor knights to many a great emprise,Taught them high thoughts, and though they kept their soulsLowly as little children, bidden them liftEyes unappalled by all the myriad starsThat wheel around the great white throne of God.
When on the highest ridge of that strange land,Under the cloudless blinding tropic blue,Drake and his band of swarthy seamen stoodWith dazed eyes gazing round them, emerald fansOf palm that fell like fountains over cliffsOf gorgeous red anana bloom obscuredTheir sight on every side. Illustrious gleamsOf rose and green and gold streamed from the plumesThat flashed like living rainbows through the glades.Piratic glints of musketoon and sword,The scarlet scarves around the tawny throats,The bright gold ear-rings in the sun-black ears,And the calm faces of the negro guidesOpposed their barbarous bravery to the noon;Yet a deep silence dreadfully besiegedEven those mighty hearts upon the vergeOf the undiscovered world. Behind them layThe old earth they knew. In front they could not seeWhat lay beyond the ridge. Only they heardCries of the painted birds troubling the heatAnd shivering through the woods; till Francis DrakePlunged through the hush, took hold upon a tree,The tallest near them, and clomb upward, branchBy branch.And there, as he swung clear aboveThe steep-down forest, on his wondering eyes,Mile upon mile of rugged shimmering gold,Burst the unknown immeasurable sea.Then he descended; and with a new voiceVowed that, God helping, he would one day ploughThose virgin waters with an English keel.
So here before the unattempted task,Above the Golden Ocean of my dreamI clomb and saw in splendid pageant passThe wild adventures and heroic deedsOf England's epic age, a vision litWith mighty prophecies, fraught with a doomWorthy the great Homeric roll of song,Yet all unsung and unrecorded quiteBy those who might have touched with Raphael's handThe large imperial legend of our race,Ere it brought forth the braggarts of an hour,Self-worshippers who love their imaged strength,And as a symbol for their own proud selvesMisuse the sacred name of this dear land,While England to the Empire of her soulLike some great Prophet passes through the crowdThat cannot understand; for he must climbUp to that sovran thunder-smitten peakWhere he shall grave and trench on adamantThe Law that God shall utter by the stillSmall voice, not by the whirlwind or the fire.There labouring for the Highest in himselfHe shall achieve the good of all mankind;And from that lonely Sinai shall returnTriumphant o'er the little gods of goldThat rule their little hour upon the plain.
Oh, thou blind master of these opened eyesBe near me, therefore, now; for not in prideI lift lame hands to this imperious theme;But yearning to a power above mine ownEven as a man might lift his hands in prayer.Or as a child, perchance, in those dark daysWhen London lay beleaguered and the axeFlashed out for a bigot empire; and the bloodOf martyrs made a purple path for SpainUp to the throne of Mary; as a childGathering with friends upon a winter's mornFor some mock fight between the hateful princePhilip and Thomas Wyatt, all at onceMight see in gorgeous ruffs embastionedPopinjay plumes and slouching hats of Spain,Gay shimmering silks and rich encrusted gems,Gold collars, rare brocades, and sleek trunk-hoseThe Ambassador and peacock courtiers comeStrutting along the white snow-strangled street,A walking plot of scarlet Spanish flowers,And with one cry a hundred boyish handsPut them to flight with snowballs, while the windAll round their Spanish ears hissed like a flightOf white-winged geese; so may I wage perchanceA mimic war with all my heart in it,Munitioned with mere perishable snowWhich mightier hands one day will urge with steel.Yet may they still remember me as IRemember, with one little laugh of love,That child's game, this were wealth enough for me.
Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer;Help me that I may tell the enduring taleOf that great seaman, good at need, who firstSailed round this globe and made one little isle,One little isle against that huge EmpireOf Spain whose might was paramount on earth,O'ertopping Babylon, Nineveh, Greece, and Rome,Carthage and all huge Empires of the past,He made this little isle, against the world,Queen of the earth and sea. Nor this aloneThe theme; for, in a mightier strife engagedEven than he knew, he fought for the new faiths,Championing our manhood as it roseAnd cast its feudal chains before the seatOf kings; nay, in a mightier battle yetHe fought for the soul's freedom, fought the fightWhich, though it still rings in our wondering ears,Was won then and for ever—that great war,That last Crusade of Christ against His priests,Wherein Spain fell behind a thunderous roarOf ocean triumph over burning shipsAnd shattered fleets, while England, England rose,Her white cliffs laughing out across the waves,Victorious over all her enemies.
And while he won the world for her domain,Her loins brought forth, her fostering bosom fedSouls that have swept the spiritual seasFrom heaven to hell, and justified her crown.For round the throne of great ElizabethSpenser and Burleigh, Sidney and Verulam,Clustered like stars, rare Jonson like the crownOf Cassiopeia, Marlowe ruddy as Mars,And over all those mighty hearts aroseThe soul of Shakespeare brooding far and wideBeyond our small horizons, like a lightThrown from a vaster sun that still illumesTracts which the arc of our increasing dayMust still leave undiscovered, unexplored.
Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer,As thou didst touch the heart and light the flameOf wonder in those eyes which first awokeTo beauty and the sea's adventurous dreamThree hundred years ago, three hundred years,And five long decades, in the leafy lanesOf Devon, where the tallest trees that boreThe raven's matted nest had yielded upTheir booty, while the perilous branches swayedBeneath the boyish privateer, the kingOf many young companions, Francis Drake;So hear me, and so help, for more than hisMy need is, even than when he first set sailUpon that wild adventure with three shipsAnd three-score men from grey old Plymouth Sound,Not knowing if he went to life or death,Not caring greatly, so that he were trueTo his own sleepless and unfaltering soulWhich could not choose but hear the ringing callAcross the splendours of the Spanish MainFrom ever fading, ever new horizons,And shores beyond the sunset and the sea.
Mother and sweetheart, England; from whose breast,With all the world before them, they went forth,Thy seamen, o'er the wide uncharted waste,Wider than that Ulysses roamed of old,Even as the wine-dark MediterraneanIs wider than some wave-relinquished poolAmong its rocks, yet none the less exploredTo greater ends than all the pride of GreeceAnd pomp of Rome achieved; if my poor songNow spread too wide a sail, forgive thy sonAnd lover, for thy love was ever wontTo lift men up in pride above themselvesTo do great deeds which of themselves aloneThey could not; thou hast led the unfaltering feetOf even thy meanest heroes down to death,Lifted poor knights to many a great emprise,Taught them high thoughts, and though they kept their soulsLowly as little children, bidden them liftEyes unappalled by all the myriad starsThat wheel around the great white throne of God.