And then I saw the glitter of their perfumed robes no more,
As gleaming wings of seraphs stroked my eyelids softly o’er.
Then I heard the sweet intoning of the Christians’ matin psalm,
And I saw them lowly kneeling before the mystic Lamb:
Maid patrician bent in prayer with the dark slave of the East,
Egypt’s sage, Juda’s captive, meeting at the angels’ feast.
Before that holy altar all one sacred likeness wear—
His who, on the cross outstretched, all our sin and weakness bare:
Subtle Greek before the cross laying down his pride of art;
Falling meekly peace divine on some savage Scythian heart;