Since his hand that holds the keys of fear and wonder Opened on the high priest's dreaming eyes a door Whence the lights of heaven and hell above and under Shone, and smote the face that men bow down before, Thrice again one singer's note had cloven in sunder Night, who blows again not one blast now but four, And the fourfold heaven is kindled with his thunder, And the stars about his forehead are fourscore. 8 From the deep soul's depths where alway love abounded First had risen a song with healing on its wings Whence the dews of mercy raining balms unbounded Shed their last compassion even on sceptred things.[1] Even on heads that like a curse the crown surrounded Fell his crowning pity, soft as cleansing springs; And the sweet last note his wrath relenting sounded Bade men's hearts be melted not for slaves but kings. 9 Next, that faith might strengthen fear and love embolden, On the creeds of priests a scourge of sunbeams fell: And its flash made bare the deeps of heaven, beholden Not of men that cry, Lord, Lord, from church or cell.[2] Hope as young as dawn from night obscure and olden Rose again, such power abides in truth's one spell: Night, if dawn it be that touches her, grows golden; Tears, if such as angels weep, extinguish hell. 10 Through the blind loud mills of barren blear-eyed learning Where in dust and darkness children's foreheads bow, While men's labour, vain as wind or water turning Wheels and sails of dreams, makes life a leafless bough, Fell the light of scorn and pity touched with yearning, Next, from words that shone as heaven's own kindling brow.[3] Stars were these as watch-fires on the world's waste burning, Stars that fade not in the fourfold sunrise now.[4] 11 Now the voice that faints not till all wrongs be wroken Sounds as might the sun's song from the morning's breast, All the seals of silence sealed of night are broken, All the winds that bear the fourfold word are blest. All the keen fierce east flames forth one fiery token; All the north is loud with life that knows not rest, All the south with song as though the stars had spoken; All the judgment-fire of sunset scathes the west. 12 Sound of paean, roll of chanted panegyric, Though by Pindar's mouth song's trumpet spake forth praise, March of warrior songs in Pythian mood or Pyrrhic, Though the blast were blown by lips of ancient days, Ring not clearer than the clarion of satiric Song whose breath sweeps bare the plague-infected ways Till the world be pure as heaven is for the lyric Sun to rise up clothed with radiant sounds as rays. 13