They could not love her for his sake; They would not, and her heart forgave. Why should a woman stoop to take The poor endowment of a slave, And like a menial choose to make Her master's mantle half her own? They loved her least who loved him most: They envied her her little throne! He who was cherished by a host Was hers by gift, and hers alone, And she would prove her woman's right To hold the throne to which the king Had called her, clothing her with white; And never would she show her ring To win a loving proselyte! These were the thoughts and this the strife That through her kindling spirit swept, And wrought her purposes of life; And powers that waked and powers that slept Within the sweet and girlish wife. Sprang into energy intense, At touch of an inspiring chrism That fell on her, she knew not whence, And lifted her to heroism Which wrapped her wholly, soul and sense. X. Meanwhile, through all the vaulted space The organ sent its angels out; And up and down the holy place They fanned the cheeks of care and doubt, And touched each worn and weary face With beauty as their wings went by: Then sailed afar with peaceful sweep, And, calling heavenward every eye, Evanished into silence deep-- The earth forgotten in the sky! Then by the sunlight warmly kissed, Far up, in rainbow glory set, Rayed round with gold and amethyst, She saw upon the great rosette The Saviour's visage, pale and trist. "Oh Crown of Thorns!" she softly breathed; "Oh precious crown of love divine! Oh brow with trickling life enwreathed! Oh piercing thorns and crimson sign! I hold you mine in love bequeathed. "But not for sake of these or thee! I must win love as thou hast won. The thorns are mine, and all must see, In sacrifice, and service done, The loving Lord they love in me." XI. Then, through a large and golden hour She listened to the golden speech Of one who held the priceless dower Of love and eloquence, that reach And move the hearts of men with power. Ah poor the music of the choir That voiced the Psalter after him! And strong the prayer that, touched with fire, Flamed upward, past the seraphim, And wrapped the throne of his desire! She watched and heard as in a dream, When, in the old, familiar ground Of sacred truth, he found his theme, And led it forth, until it wound Through meadows broad--a swollen stream That flashed and eddied in the light, And fed the grasses at its edge, Or thundered in its onward might O'er interposing weir and ledge, And left them hidden in the white; While on it pressed, and, to the eye, Grew broader, till its breadth became A solemn river, sweeping by, That, quick with ships and red with flame, Reached far away and kissed the sky!