Harken! The choristers, the white-robed priest Move thro’ the chapel dim Sounding of warfare and the victor’s palm, Of valiant marchings, of the feast Spread for the pilgrim in a haven’d calm. How on the first lips of my steadfast race Sounded that battle hymn, Quaint heaven-vauntings, with God’s gauntlet flung, To me bequeathed, from age to age, My challenge and my heritage! “The Lord is in His holy place”-- How in their ears the herald voice has rung! Now will I make bright their sword, Will pilgrim in their ancient path, Will haunt the temple of their Lord; Truth that is neither variable nor hath Shadow of turning, I will find In the wise ploddings of their faithful mind; Of finding not, as in this frustrate hour By question hounded, waylaid by despair, Yet in these uses shall I know His power As the warm flesh by breathing knows the air. O futile comfort! My faith-hungry heart Still in your sweetness tastes a poisonous sour; Far off, far off I quiver ’neath the smart Of old indignities and obscure scorn Indelibly on man’s proud spirit laid, That now in time’s ironic masquerade Minister healing to the hurt and worn! What are those streams that from the altar pour Where goat and ox and human captive bled To feed the blood-lust of the murderous priest? I cannot see where Christ’s dear love is shed, So deep the insatiate horror washes red Flesh-stains and frenzy-sears and gore. Beneath that Cross, whereon His hands outspread, What forest shades behold what shameful rites Of maidenhood surrendered to the beast In obscene worship on midsummer nights! What imperturbable disguise Enwraps these organs with a chaste restraint To chant innocuous hymns and litanies For sinner and adoring saint, Which yet inherit like an old blood-taint Some naked caperings in the godliest tune,-- Goat-songs and jests strong with the breath of Pan, That charmed the easy cow-girl and her man In uncouth tryst beneath a scandalous moon! Ah, could I hearken with their trust, Or see with their pure-seeing eyes Who of the frame of these dear mysteries Were not too wise! Why cannot I, as in a stronger hour, Outface the horror that defeats me now? Hare I not reaped complacent the rich power That harvest from this praise and bowing low? On this strong music have I mounted up, At yonder rail broke bread, and shared the holy cup, And on that cross have hung, and felt God’s pain Sorrowing, sorrowing, till the world shall end.