"High in the heavens the sun was glowing; Around him the white clouds, like waves, were flowing; The sea was very still and grey. Dreamily thinking as I lay, Close by the gliding vessel's wheel, A sleepless slumber did o'er me steal; And I saw the Christ, the healer of woe, In white and waving garments go; Walking in giant form went he Over the land and sea. High in the heaven he towered his head, And his hands in blessing forth he spread Over the land and sea. And for a heart, O wonder meet! In his breast the sun did throb and beat; In his breast, for a heart to the only One, Shone the red, the flaming sun. The flaming red sunheart of the Lord Forth its gracious life-beams poured; Its fair and love-benignant light Softly shone, with warming might, Over the land and sea. "Sounds of solemn bells that go Through the still air to and fro, Draw, like swans, in a rosy band, The gliding ship to the grassy land, Where a mighty city, towered and high, Breaks and jags the line of the sky. "Oh, wonder of peach, how still was the town! The hollow tumult had all gone down Of the bustling and babbling trades. Men and women, and youths and maids, White clothes wearing, Palm branches bearing, Walked through the clean and echoing streets; And when one with another meets, They look at each other with eyes that tell That they understand each other well; And, trembling with love and sweet restraint, Each kisses the other upon the brow, And looks above, like a hoping saint, To the holy, healing sunheart's glow; Which atoning all, its red blood streams Downward in still outwelling beams; Till, threefold blessed, they call aloud, The single hearts of a happy crowd. Praised be Jesus Christ!" "You will like that better," concluded the curate, again addressing Mrs. Cathcart. "Fanciful," she answered. "I don't like fancies about sacred things." "I fear, however," replied he, "that most of our serious thoughts about sacred things are little better than fancies." "Sing that other of his about the flowers, and I promise you never to mention his name in this company again," said Harry. "Very well, I will, on that condition," answered Ralph. "In the sunny summer morning Into the garden I come; The flowers are whispering and speaking, But I, I wander dumb. "The flowers are whispering and speaking, And they gaze at my visage wan: 'You must not be cross with our sister, You melancholy man!'" "Is that all?" said Adela. "Yes, that's all," answered the singer. "But we cannot let you off with that only," she said. "What an awful night it is!" interrupted the colonel, rising and going to the window to peep out. "Between me and the lamp, the air looks solid with driving snow." "Sing one of your winter songs, Ralph," said the curate's wife. "This is surely stormy enough for one of your Scotch winters that you are so proud of."