XI.

Then, through a large and golden hour She listened to the golden speech Of one who held the priceless dower Of love and eloquence, that reach And move the hearts of men with power.

Ah poor the music of the choir That voiced the Psalter after him! And strong the prayer that, touched with fire, Flamed upward, past the seraphim, And wrapped the throne of his desire!

She watched and heard as in a dream, When, in the old, familiar ground Of sacred truth, he found his theme, And led it forth, until it wound Through meadows broad—a swollen stream

That flashed and eddied in the light, And fed the grasses at its edge, Or thundered in its onward might O'er interposing weir and ledge, And left them hidden in the white;

While on it pressed, and, to the eye, Grew broader, till its breadth became A solemn river, sweeping by, That, quick with ships and red with flame, Reached far away and kissed the sky!

Strong men were moved as trees are bowed Before a swift and sounding wind; And sighs were long and sobs were loud, Of those who loved and those who sinned, Among the deeply listening crowd.