For all the stammering of those simple men, A four-fold unity of truth they reach : Drops as of light fall from their trembling pen, And Christ speaks through them with a tenderer speech. And through all time our father's faith shall speed, And eastward chanted rise the changeless creed- But for the New Atlantis-for the Church Where faith and knowledge heart-united dwell— I think it lies far-off beyond our search, F SUPER FLUMINA. I. I READ again that wondrous song, Through the forest of the psalms- On its rosary of the reed : Now among the dark-green palms, And through the harp-hung willows grey, It yearneth its sweet self away. And then the stream is fleck'd with froth, And then the psalm is white with wrath, And all the sorrow of the verse Swells out majestic to a curse. "Blessèd be thou, Psalm!" I said, "Whether thy deep words be read Soft and low with bended head; Or whether chance at vesper-tide In some minster grand and grey, By the organ glorified, Soft the Super Flumina Rustles by the wreathen pillar, To the heavenly Sion set." "And why," I thought, "must she be still, The glittering grief upon his brow? In Christ's own church must she rest now, Fair, angel-fair, but frozen, like A marble maid whose death-white fingers Enclasp a harp, o'er which she lingers Stone-silent, but may never strike ?" II. Musing thus a spirit bright Stood by me that summer night: "Come where the river rolleth calm Of that Babylonian psalm; Thou shalt learn, by me reveal'd, III. Then on a great Assyrian quay, At noon of night, methought I stood Where Tigris went with glimmering flood. And walls were there all storied round I saw the great blue lake of Wan, Sometimes hearing my shallop creep, Through orange-grove, and date-tree dell, Take down the sail, and strike the mast, Begirt with many a belt of palm, Through the great town the river rolls, Through it another river fleets, Whose awful waves are living souls. And trees droop down o'er spouted fountains, And o'er the garden, and the wave, A muffled bell, methinketh tolls, "For thee, earth's chief ones stir the grave." And rises to the stars a cry Of triumph and of agony, Far over all the ancient East"How hath the golden city ceased! In shadow of his dim blue room, High overhead in painted gloom, Like sunset cloud-encompass'd, Bel Sleeps golden in his oracle. Falleth a voice of far-off Pæans Down where the lion banner droops : Rolling wave and sighing breeze Through the algums, set like walls, |