Thus spake the Stranger, and was seen no more: But whether o'er the waters, as of old Footing that Galilean Sea, with faith Not now infirm he reached the southern shore, Or passed from sight as one whom crowds conceal, The fisher knew not. At the tent arrived, Before its little door he bent, and lo! Within, there knelt a venerable man With hoary hands screening a hoary head, Who prayed, and prayed. His tale the fisher told: With countenance unamazed, yet well content, That kneeler answered, 'Son, thy speech is true! Hence, and announce thy tidings to the King, Who leaves his couch but now.' 'How beautiful'-- That old man sang, as down the Thames at morn In multitudinous pomp the barges dropped, Following those twain that side by side advanced, One royal, one pontific, bearing each The Cross in silver blazoned or in gold-- 'How beautiful, O Sion, are thy courts! Lo, on thy brow thy Maker's name is writ: Fair is this place and awful; porch of heaven: Behold, God's Church is founded on a rock: It stands, and shall not fall: the gates of Hell Shall not prevail against it.' From the barge Of Sebert and his Queen, antiphonal Rapturous response was wafted: 'I beheld Jerusalem, the City sage and blest; From heaven I saw it to the earth descending In sanctity gold-vested, as a Bride Decked for her Lord. I heard a voice which sang, Behold the House where God will dwell with men: And God shall wipe the tears from off their face; And death shall be no more.' Old Thames that day Brightened with banners of a thousand boats Winnowed by winds flower-scented. Countless hands Tossed on the brimming river chaplets wov'n On mead or hill, or branches lopped in woods With fruit-bloom red, or white with clustering cone, Changing clear stream to garden. Mile on mile Now song was heard, now bugle horn that died Gradual 'mid sedge and reed. Alone the swan High on the western waters kept aloof; Remote she eyed the scene with neck thrown back, Her ancient calm preferring, and her haunt Crystalline still. Alone the Julian Tower Far down the eastern stream, though tap'stries waved From every window, every roof o'er-swarmed With anthem-echoing throngs, maintained, unmoved, Roman and Stoic, her Caesarean pride: On Saxon feasts she fixed a cold, grey gaze; 'Mid Christian hymns heard but the old acclaim-- 'Consul Romanus.' When the sun had reached Its noonday height, a people and its king Around their minster pressed. With measured tread And Introit chanted, up the pillared nave Reverent they moved: then knelt. Between their ranks Their Bishop last advanced with mitred brow And in his hand the Cross, at every step