PART III.
I.
In vain thine altars do they heap
With blooms of violated May
Who fail the words of Christ to keep;
Thy Son who love not, nor obey.
Their songs are as a serpent's hiss;
Their praise a poniard's poisoned edge;
Their offering taints, like Judas' kiss,
Thy shrine; their vows are sacrilege.
Sadly from such thy countenance turns:
Thou canst not stretch thy Babe to such
(Albeit for all thy pity yearns)
As greet Him with a leper's touch.
Who loveth thee must love thy Son.
Weak Love grows strong thy smile beneath:
But nothing comes from nothing; none
Can reap Love's harvest out of Death.
Babylon.
II.
The watchman watched along the walls:
And lo! an hour or more ere light
Loud rang his trumpet. From their halls
The revellers rushed into the night.
There hung a terror on the air;
There moved a terror under ground;—
The hostile hosts, heard everywhere,
Within, without—were nowhere found.
"The Christians to the lions! Ho!"—
Alas! self-tortured crowds, let be!
Let go your wrath; your fears let go:
Ye gnaw the net, but cannot flee.
Ye drank from out Orestes' cup;
Orestes' Furies drave ye wild.
Who conquers from on high? Look up!
A Woman, holding forth a Child!
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III.
The golden rains are dashed against
Those verdant walls of lime and beech
With which our happy vale is fenced
Against the north; yet cannot reach
The stems that lift yon leafy crest
High up above their dripping screen:
The chestnut fans are downward pressed
On banks of bluebell hid in green.
White vapours float along the glen,
Or rise from every sunny brake;—
A pause amid the gusts—again
The warm shower sings across the lake.
Sing on, all-cordial showers, and bathe
The deepest root of loftiest pine!
The cowslip dimmed, the "primrose rathe"
Refresh; and drench in nectarous wine
Yon fruit-tree copse, all blossomed o'er
With forest-foam and crimson snow—
Behold! above it bursts once more
The world-embracing, heavenly bow!
Sedes Sapientiae.
IV.
O that the wordy war might cease!
Self-sentenced Babel's strife of tongues!
Loud rings the arena. Athletes, peace!
Nor drown the wild-dove's Song of Songs.
Alas, the wanderers feel their loss:
With tears they seek—ah, seldom found—
That peace whose volume is the Cross;
That peace which leaves not holy ground.
Mary, who loves true peace loves thee!
A happy child, not taught of Scribes,
He stands beside the Church's knee;
From her the lore of Christ imbibes.
Hourly he drinks it from her face:
For there his eyes, he knows not how,
The face of Him she loves can trace,
And, crowned with thorns, the sovereign brow.
"Behold! all colours blend in white!
Behold! all Truths have root in Love!"
So sings, half lost in light of light,
Her Song of Songs the mystic Dove.