Pass now between them, push the brazen door, And standing on the polished marble floor Leave all the noises of the square behind; Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find, Silent at first, but for the noise you made When on the brazen door your hand you laid To shut it after you--but now behold The city rulers on their thrones of gold, Clad in most fair attire, and in their hands Long carven silver-banded ebony wands; Then from the daïs drop your eyes and see Soldiers and peasants standing reverently Before those elders, round a little band Who bear such arms as guard the English land, But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they, The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey; And as they lean with pain upon their spears Their brows seem furrowed deep with more than years; For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes, Bent are they less with time than miseries. Pondering on them the city grey-beards gaze Through kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days, And pity for poor souls, and vague regret For all the things that might have happened yet, Until, their wonder gathering to a head, The wisest man, who long that land has led, Breaks the deep silence, unto whom again A wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain, And with a hollow voice as from a tomb At first he tells the story of his doom, But as it grows and once more hopes and fears, Both measureless, are ringing round his ears, His eyes grow bright, his seeming days decrease, For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace. THE ELDER OF THE CITY. From what unheard-of world, in what strange keel, Have ye come hither to our commonweal? No barbarous race, as these our peasants say, But learned in memories of a long-past day, Speaking, some few at least, the ancient tongue That through the lapse of ages still has clung To us, the seed of the Ionian race. Speak out and fear not; if ye need a place Wherein to pass the end of life away, That shall ye gain from us from this same day, Unless the enemies of God ye are; We fear not you and yours to bear us war, And scarce can think that ye will try again Across the perils of the shifting plain To seek your own land whereso that may be: For folk of ours bearing the memory Of our old land, in days past oft have striven To reach it, unto none of whom was given To come again and tell us of the tale, Therefore our ships are now content to sail, About these happy islands that we know. THE WANDERER. Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, A tale of folly and of wasted life, Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife, Ending, where all things end, in death at last: So if I tell the story of the past, Let it be worth some little rest, I pray, A little slumber ere the end of day.