That convent's church by great Augustine reared Where once old woodlands clasped a temple old, Vaunt of false Gods. To Peter and to Paul That church was dedicate, albeit so long High o'er the cloudy rack of fleeting years It bore, and bears, its founder's name, not theirs. Therein that holy founder slept in Christ, And Ethelbert, and Bertha. All was changed: King Eadbald, new-crowned and bad of life, Who still, whate'er was named of great or good, Made answer, 'Dreams! I say the flesh rules all!' Hated the Cross. His Queen, that portent crowned, She that with name of wife was yet no wife, Abhorred that Cross and feared. A Baptist new In that Herodian court had Laurence stood, Commanding, 'Put the evil thing away!' Since then the woman's to the monarch's hate Had added strength--the serpent's poison-bag Venoming the serpent's fang. 'Depart the realm!' With voice scarce human thus the tyrant cried, 'Depart or die;' and gave the Church's goods To clown and boor. Upon the bank of Thames Settled like ruin. Holy Sebert dead, In that East Saxon kingdom monarch long, Three sons unrighteous now their riot held. Frowning into the Christian Church they strode, Full-armed, and each, with far-stretched foot firm set Watching the Christian rite. 'Give us,' they cried, While knelt God's children at their Paschal Feast, 'Give us those circlets of your sacred bread: Ye feed therewith your beggars; kings are we!' The Bishop answered, 'Be, like them, baptized, Sons of God's Church, His Sacrament with man, For that cause Mother of Christ's Sacraments, So shall ye share her Feast.' With lightning speed Their swords leaped forth; contemptuous next they cried, 'For once we spare to sweep a witless head From worthless shoulders. Ere to-morrow's dawn Hence, nor return!' He sped to Rochester: Her bishop, like himself, was under ban: The twain to Canterbury passed, and there Resolved to let the tempest waste its wrath, And crossed the seas. By urgency outworn, 'Gainst that high judgment of his holier will Laurence to theirs deferred, but tarried yet For one day more to cast a last regard On regions loved so long. As compline ceased He reached the abbey gates, and entered in: Sadly the brethren looked him in the face, Yet no one said, 'Take comfort!' Sad and sole He passed to the Scriptorium: round he gazed, And thought of happy days, when Gregory, One time their Abbot, next their Pope, would send Some precious volume to his exiled sons, While they in reverence knelt, and kissed its edge, And, kissing, heard once more, as if in dream, Gregorian chants through Roman palm trees borne With echoes from the Coliseum's wall Adown that Coelian Hill; and saw God's poor