Then, as the sound of many waters, falling Far down a rocky valley, rises calling Unto the shepherd high the hills among, Rose from the church a sound of full-choired song, And all the temple trembled with the swell Of that sweet psalm the Santen sing so well:-- “Saints of God, ere now sea-faring On these briny plains of ours, Who have set a temple bearing Massy walls and snowy towers, “Watch the wave-tossed seaman kindly; Lend him aid the bark to guide; Send him fair winds, lest he blindly Perish on the pathless tide! “See the woman poor and sightless: Ne’er a word she uttereth; Dark her days are and delightless,-- Darkness aye is worse than death. “Vain the spells they have told o’er her, Blank is all her memory. Queens of Paradise, restore her! Touch those eyes that they may see! “We who are but fishers lowly, Lift our hearts ere forth we go; Ye, the helpful saints and holy, Fill our nets to overflow. “So, when penitents heart-broken, Sue for pardon at your door, Flood their souls with peace unspoken, White flowers of our briny moor!” So prayed the Santen, with tears and strong crying. Then came the patrons to the maid low-lying, And breathed a little life into her frame; So that her wan eyes brightened, and there came A tender flush of joy her visage over, At the sweet sight of Vincen bent over her. “Why love, whence came you? Do you mind, I pray, A word you said down at the Farm one day, Walking under the trellis, by my side? You said, ‘If ever any harm betide, Hie thee right quickly to the holy Saints, Who cure all ills and hearken all complaints.’ “Dearest, I would you saw my heart this minute, As in a glass, and all the comfort in it! Comfort and peace like a full fountain welling Through all my happy spirit! There’s no telling-- A grace beyond my uttermost desires! Look, Vincen: see you not God’s angel-choirs?” Pausing, she gazed into the deep blue air. It was as if she could discern up there Wonderful things hidden from mortal men. But soon her dreamy speech began again: “Ah, they are happy, happy souls that soar Aloft, tethered by flesh to earth no more! “Did you mark, Vincen dear, the flakes of light That fell when they began their heavenward flight? If all their words to me had written been, They would have made a precious book, I ween.” Here Vincen, who had striven his tears to stay, Brake forth in sobs, and gave his anguish way. “Would to God I _had_ seen them ere they went! Ah, would to God! Then to their white raiment, Like a tick fastening, I would have cried, ‘O queens of heaven! Sole ark where we may bide, In this late hour, do what you will with me! Maimed, sightless, toothless, I would gladly be;