Oh, had we, best-loved Poet, but the power
From our own lives to pluck one golden hour,
And give it unto thee in thy great need,
How would we welcome thee to this bright bower!
O life that is so warm, 'twas Omar's too;
O wine that is so red, he drank of you:
Yet life and wine must all be put away,
And we go sleep with Omar—yea, 'tis true.
And when in some great city yet to be
The sacred wine is spilt for you and me,
To those great fames that we have yet to build,
We'll know as little of it all as he.
THE SECOND CRUCIFIXION
Loud mockers in the roaring street
Say Christ is crucified again:
Twice pierced His gospel-bringing feet,
Twice broken His great heart in vain.
I hear, and to myself I smile,
For Christ talks with me all the while.
No angel now to roll the stone
From off His unawaking sleep,
In vain shall Mary watch alone,
In vain the soldiers vigil keep.
Yet while they deem my Lord is dead
My eyes are on His shining head.
Ah! never more shall Mary hear
That voice exceeding sweet and low
Within the garden calling clear:
Her Lord is gone, and she must go.
Yet all the while my Lord I meet
In every London lane and street.