Instead of calling folk to prayer It spread an evil in the air.

Instead of a song, from north to south, It put a lie in the wind's mouth.

The very palms beneath it died, So harsh it jarred, so loud it lied.

Then the G.o.ds told the blue-robed bonze: "_Your Bell is only wrought of bronze._

_Lower it down, cast it again, Or you shall shake the heavens in vain._"

Then, as the mighty cauldron hissed, Men brought the wealth that no man missed.

Yea, they brought silver, they brought gold, And melted them into the seething mould.

The miser brought his greening h.o.a.rd, And the king cast in his sword.

Yet, when the Bell in the Temple swung, It jarred the stars with its harsh tongue.

"_Is this your best?_" the oracle said, "_Then were you better drunk or dead._"

Once again they melted it down, And the king cast in his crown.

Then they poured wine, and bullock's blood, Into the hot, grey, seething flood.

They gave it mellowing fruits to eat, And honey-combs to make it sweet.

Yet, when they hauled it to the sky, The Bell was one star-shattering lie.

So, for the third time and the last, They lowered it down to be re-cast.

The white-hot metal seethed anew, And the crowd shrank as the heat grew;

But a white-robed woman, queenly and tall, Pressed to the brink before them all,

One breast, like a golden fruit lay bare; She held her small son feeding there.

She plucked him off, she lifted him high, Like rose-red fruit on the blue sky.

She pressed her lips to the budded feet, And murmured softly, "_Oh, sweet, my sweet._"

She whispered, "_G.o.ds, that my land may live, I give the best that I have to give!_"

Then, then, before the throng awoke, Before one cry from their white lips broke,

She tossed him into the fiery flood, Her child, her baby, her flesh and blood.

And the crisp hissing waves closed round And melted him through without a sound.

"_Too quick for pain_," they heard her say, And she sobbed, once, and she turned away.

The Temple Bell, in peace and war, Keeps the measure of sun and star.

But sometimes, in the night it cries Faintly, and a voice replies:

_Mother, Oh, mother, the Bell rings true!-- You were all that I had!--Oh, mother, my mother!-- With the land and the Bell it is well. Is it well, Is it well with the heart that had you and none other?_

SLAVE AND EMPEROR

"Our cavalry have rescued Nazareth from the enemy whose supermen described Christianity as a creed for slaves."

The Emperor mocked at Nazareth In his almighty hour.

The Slave that bowed himself to death And walked with slaves in Nazareth, What were his words but wasted breath Before that "will to power"?

Yet, in the darkest hour of all, When black defeat began, The Emperor heard the mountains quake, He felt the graves beneath him shake, He watched his legions rally and break, And he whimpered as they ran.

"I hear a shout that moves the earth, A cry that wakes the dead!

Will no one tell me whence they come, For all my messengers are dumb?

What power is this that comes to birth And breaks my power?" he said.

Then, all around his foundering guns, Though dawn was now not far, The darkness filled with a living fear That whispered at the Emperor's ear, "_The armies of the dead draw near Beneath an eastern star._"

_The trumpet blows in Nazareth.

The Slave is risen again.

Across the bitter wastes of death The hors.e.m.e.n ride from Nazareth, And the Power we mocked as wasted breath Returns, in power, to reign; Rides on, in white, through Nazareth, To save His world again._

ON A MOUNTAIN TOP

On this high altar, fringed with ferns That darken against the sky, The dawn in lonely beauty burns And all our evils die.

The struggling sea that roared below Is quieter than the dew, Quieter than the clouds that flow Across the stainless blue.

On this bare crest, the angels kneel And breathe the sweets that rise From flowers too little to reveal Their beauty to our eyes.

I have seen Edens on the earth With queenly blooms arrayed; But here the fairest come to birth, The smallest flowers He made.

O, high above the sounding pine, And richer, sweeter far, The wild thyme wakes. The celandine Looks at the morning star.

They may not see the heavens unfold.

They breathe no out-worn prayer; But, on a mountain, as of old, His glory fills the air.