Long time the brethren sat; discoursed long time Each with his neighbour. 'Craft of man would force Dishonest deed on this our holy House, By miracles suborned;' thus spake the first: The second answered, 'Ay, confederates they! The good Queen knew not of it:' then the third, 'Not so! these men are simple folks, I ween: Nor time for fraud had they. What sail is yon So weather-worn that nears the headland?' Soon A pilot stood before them; at his side A priest, long years an inmate of their House, But late a pilgrim in the Holy Land. Their greetings over, greetings warm and kind, Thus spake the Pilgrim: 'Brothers mine, rejoice; Our God is with us! For our House I prayed Three times with forehead on the Tomb of Christ; Last night there came to me, in visible form, An answer to that prayer. All day our ship, Before a great wind rushed t'ward Mercian shores: To them I turned not: on the East I gazed: "O happy East," I mused, "O Land, true home Of every Christian heart! The Saviour's feet Thy streets, thy cornfields trod! With these compared Our country's self seems nothing!" In my heart Imaged successive, rose once more those sites Capernaum, Nain, Bethsaida, Bethlehem-- Where'er my feet had strayed. At midnight, cries Of wonder rang around me, and I turned: I saw once more our convent on its hill: I saw beside its gate a Tent snow-white; I saw a glittering pillar o'er that Tent 'Twixt heaven and earth suspense! Serene it shone, Such pillar as led forth the Chosen Race By night from Egypt's coasts. From wave to wave Moon-like it paved a path! I cried, "Thank God! For who shall stay yon splendour till it reach That Syrian shore? England," I said, "my country, Shall lay upon Christ's Tomb a hand all light, Whatever tempest shakes the world of men, Thenceforth His servant vowed!"' When ceased that voice There fell upon the monks a crisis strange; And where that Pilgrim looked for joy, behold, Doubt, wrath, and anguish! Faces old long since Grew older, stricken as by hectic spasm, So fierce a pang had clutched them by the throat; While drops of sweat on many a wrinkled brow Hung large like dewy beads condensed from mist On cliffs by torrents shaken. Mute they sat; Then sudden rose, uplifting helpless hands, As when from distant rock sore-wounded men, Who all day long have watched some dreadful fight, Behold it lost, or else foresee it lost, And with it lost their country's hearths and homes, And yet can bring no succour. Thus with them-- They knew themselves defeated; deemed the stars Of heaven had fought against them in their course; Yet still believed, and could not but believe Their cause the cause of Justice, and its wreck The wreck of priestly honour, patriot faith: