So still were we, before the Months began That rounded us and shaped us into Man. So still we SHALL be, surely, at the last, Dreamless, untouched of Blessing or of Ban!

Ah, strange it seems that this thy common Thought - How all Things have been, ay, and shall be nought - Was ancient Wisdom in thine ancient East, In those old Days when Senlac Fight was fought,

Which gave our England for a captive Land To pious Chiefs of a believing Band, A gift to the Believer from the Priest, Tossed from the holy to the blood-red Hand! { 11}

Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save His England, even of Harold Godwin's son; The high Tide murmurs by the Hero's Grave! { 12}

And THOU wert wreathing Roses--who can tell? - Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well, Or satst at Wine in Nashapur, when dun The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell!

The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam! Along the white Walls of his guarded Home No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o'er the Wave The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam!

And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea; The SWAN'S PATH of his Fathers is his Grave: His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be.

His was the Age of Faith, when all the West Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest; And thou wert living then, and didst not heed The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed!