Next spake the Roman of those churches twain By Constantine beside the Tyber built To glorify their names. With sudden turn, Sebert, the crimson mounting to his brow, Made question, 'Is your Tyber of the South Ampler than this, our Thames?' The old man smiled; 'Tyber to Thames is as that willow-stock To yonder oak.' The Saxon cried with joy: 'How true thy judgment is! how just thy tongue! What hinders, O my Father, but that Thames, Huge river from the forests rolled by God, Should image, like that Tyber, churches twain, Honouring those Princes of the Apostles' Band? King Ethelbert, my uncle, built Saint Paul's; Saint Peter's Church be mine!' An hour's advance Left them in thickets tangled. Low the ground, Well-nigh by waters clipt, a savage haunt With briar and bramble thick, and 'Thorny Isle' For that cause named. Sebert around him gazed, A maiden blush upon him thus he spake: 'I know this spot; I stood here once, a boy: 'Twas winter then: the swoll'n and turbid flood Rustled the sallows. Far I fled from men: A youth had done me wrong, and vengeful thoughts Burned in my heart: I warred with them in vain: I prayed against them; yet they still returned: O'erspent at last, I cast me on my knees And cried, "Just God, if Thou despise my prayer, Faithless, thence weak, not less remember well How many a man in this East Saxon land Stands up this hour, in wood, or field, or farm, Like me sore tempted, but with loftier heart: To these be helpful--yea, to one of these!" And lo, the wrathful thoughts, like routed fiends, Left me, and came no more!' Discoursing thus, The friends a moment halted in a space Where stood a flowering thorn. Adown it trailed In zigzag curves erratic here and there Long lines of milky bloom, like rills of foam Furrowing the green back of some huge sea wave Refluent from cliffs. Ecstatic minstrelsy Swelled from its branches. Birds as thick as leaves Thronged them; and whether joy was theirs that hour Because the May had come, or joy of love, Or tenderer gladness for their young new-fledged, So piercing was that harmony, the place Eden to Sebert looked, while brake and bower Shone like the Tree of Life. 'What minster choir,' The Bishop cried, 'could better chant God's praise? Here shall your church ascend:--its altar rise Where yonder thorn tree stands!' The old man spake; Yet in him lived a thought unbreathed: 'How oft Have trophies risen to blazon deeds accursed! Angels this church o'er-winging, age on age Shall see that boy at prayer!' In peace, in war, Daily the work advanced. The youthful King Kneeling, himself had raised the earliest sod, Made firm the corner stone. Whate'er of gold