Gregory the Pontiff from that Roman Hill Sent thee to work a man's work far away, And manlike didst thou work it. Prince, yet child, Men saw thee, and obeyed thee. O'er the earth Thy step was regal, meekness of thy Christ Weighted with weight of conquerors and of kings: Men saw a man who toiled not for himself, Yet never ceased from toil; who warred on Sin; Had peace with all beside. In happy hour God laid His holy hand upon thine eyes: I knelt beside thy bed: I leaned mine ear Down to thy lips to catch their last; in vain: Yet thou perchance wert murmuring in thy heart: "I leave my staff within no hireling's hand; Therefore my work shall last," Ah me! Ah me! There was a Laurence once on Afric's shore: He with his Cyprian died. I too, methinks, Had shared--how gladly shared--my Bishop's doom. Father, with Gregory pray this night! That God Who promised, "for my servant David's sake," Even yet may hear thy prayer.' Thus wept the man, Till o'er him fell half slumber. Soon he woke, And, from between that statue's marble feet Lifting a marble face, in silence crept To where far off his bed was strewn, and drew The deer-skin covering o'er him. With its warmth Deep sleep, that solace of lamenting hearts Which makes the waking bitterer, o'er him sank, Nor wholly left him, though in sleep he moaned When from the neighbouring farm, an hour ere dawn, The second time rang out that clarion voice Which bids the Christian watch. As thus he lay T'wards him there moved in visions of the Lord A Venerable Shape, compact of light, And loftier than our mortal. Near arrived, That mild, compassionate Splendour shrank his beam, Or healed with strengthening touch the gazer's eyes Made worthier of such grace; and Laurence saw Princedom not less than his, the Apostles' Chief, To whom the Saviour answered, 'Rock art thou,' And later--crowning Love, not less than Faith-- 'Feed thou My Sheep, My Lambs!' He knew that shape, For oft, a child 'mid catacombs of Rome, And winding ways girt by the martyred dead, His eyes had seen it. Pictured on those vaults Stood Peter, Moses of the Christian Law, Figured in one that by the Burning Bush Unsandalled knelt, or drew with lifted hand The torrent from the rock, yet wore not less In aureole round his head the Apostle's name 'Petros,' and in his hand sustained the Keys-- Such shape once more he saw. 'And comest thou then Long-waited, or with sceptre-wielding hand Earthward to smite the unworthiest head on earth, Or with the darker of those Keys thou bearest Him from the synod of the Saints to shut Who fled as flies the hireling? Let it be! Not less in that bright City by whose gate