There upon the sand, forlorn In its beauty, far remote, Stands a Temple-shrine, they note Of the Holy Spirit’s dream.... And they cross a little stream, Thrilling with the far-off sea; And they follow what must be, As they tread within the shrine, Builded marble for a sign Angels had been set to build On a ground the ocean filled. In a tabernacle lies, Lone and grand to seeking eyes, Not the sunk sun, but a tomb, Whitest marble, and the room Of the holy Clement dead. There he lies, how comforted! Through the mighty water brought To a peace, a harbour wrought Of the holy Angels’ care. Close his anchor! He so still And sufficed--the waves that kill Driven away by angel-hands; While his people’s exile bands Kneel around him in the sea.... Come to port, his anchor by! Thus the sun each day must die: Thus sweet Clement but one day In the sea sank down, and lay As at sunset, full of peace. They bear him to the land: and the flood-tides increase. “COMMUNICANTES ET MEMORIAM VENERANTES ... JOANNIS ET PAULI” Two olive-branches--silver; two candelabra,--gold: Precious as only tried and precious things Are of their essence bold, The Roman John and Paul--young heads together-- Pray on, nor is there any question whether The image that the Emperor’s Præfect brings For worship will be worshipped, for already The service of their ritual is so steady It is as day moving to noon, and moving to night’s fold. In one white, empty chamber two brethren, yet as one, And as a sepulchre their home made bare. Ye ask what they have done? And the poor answer, “These would have no treasure Save this, that they can die.” O solemn pleasure To see their home a casket everywhere Wrought for their hour of death! Gone the slow mornings Through which they wearied out the Emperor’s warnings! Now they would hold their jewel safe in their white walls, with prayer. The silence! One can listen how the gold morning sun Sings through the air, the hush is grown so fine. Steps!--Thus intrusive run Rain-storms on solitudes--A white-flashed gleaming! The brow of Jove, the cloud-white hair, the beaming Cloud-swirl of beard! A voice that bids, “Incline, And offer homage!” ... How the silence tingles! The sun with air in call and echo mingles: Those brethren of closed senses--peace! they have made no sign.