Sun-ripened harvests of the royal lands Yielded from Thames to Stour, or tax and toll From quays mast-thronged to loud-resounding sea, Save what his realm required by famine vexed At times, or ravage of the Mercian sword, Went to the work. His Queen her jewels brought, Smiling, huge gift in slenderest hands up-piled; His thanes their store; the poor their labour free. Some clave the quarry's ledges: from its depths Some haled the blocks; from distant forests some Dragged home the oak-beam on the creaking wain: Alas, that arms in noble tasks so strong Should e'er have sunk in dust! Ere ten years passed Saint Peter's towers above the high-roofed streets Smiled on Saint Paul's. That earlier church had risen Where stood, in Roman days, Apollo's fane: Upon a site to Dian dedicate Now rose its sister. Erring Faith had reached In those twin Powers that ruled the Day and Night, To Wisdom witnessing and Chastity, Her loftiest height, and perished. Phoenix-like, From ashes of dead rites and truths abused Now soared unstained Religion. What remained? The Consecration. On its eve, the King Held revel in its honour, solemn feast, And wisely-woven dance, where beauty and youth, Through loveliest measures moving, music-winged, And winged not less by gladness, interwreathed Brightness with brightness, glance turned back on glance, And smile on smile--a courtseying graciousness Of stateliest forms that, winding, sank or rose As if on heaving seas. In groups apart Old warriors clustered. Eadbald discussed And Snorr, that truce with Wessex signed, and said, 'Fear nought: it cannot last!' A shadow sat That joyous night upon one brow alone, Redwald's, East Anglia's King. In generous youth He, guest that time with royal Ethelbert, Had gladly bowed to Christ. From shallowest soil Faith springs apace, but springs to die. Returned To plains of Ely, all that sweetness past Seemed but a dream while scornful spake his wife, Upon whose brow beauty from love divorced Made beauty's self unbeauteous: 'Lose--why not?-- Thwarting your liegeful subjects, lose at will Your Kingdom; you that might have reigned ere now Bretwalda of the Seven!' In hour accursed The weak man with his Faith equivocated: Fraudful, beneath the self-same roofs he raised Altars to Christ and idols. By degrees That Truth he mocked forsook him. Year by year His face grew dark, and barbed his tongue though smooth, Manner and mind like grass-fields after thaw, Silk-soft above, yet iron-hard below: Spleenful that night at Sebert's blithe discourse He answered thus, with seeming-careless eye Wandering from wall to roof: 'I like your Church: Would it had rested upon firmer ground,