Where, now in dark and now in light, The countless columns, glimmering white, Seemed leading out to the Infinite: Plunged halfway up the shaft, they showed In that pale shifting incense-cloud Which flowed them by and overflowed Till mist and marble seemed to blend And the whole temple, at the end, With its own incense to distend,-- The arches like a giant's bow To bend and slacken,--and below, The nichèd saints to come and go: Alone amid the shifting scene That central altar stood serene In its clear steadfast taper-sheen. Then first, the poet was aware Of a chief angel standing there Before that altar, in the glare. His eyes were dreadful, for you saw That _they_ saw God; his lips and jaw Grand-made and strong, as Sinai's law They could enunciate and refrain From vibratory after-pain, And his brow's height was sovereign: On the vast background of his wings Rises his image, and he flings From each plumed arc pale glitterings And fiery flakes (as beateth, more Or less, the angel-heart) before And round him upon roof and floor, Edging with fire the shifting fumes, While at his side 'twixt lights and glooms The phantasm of an organ booms. Extending from which instrument And angel, right and left-way bent, The poet's sight grew sentient Of a strange company around And toward the altar, pale and bound With bay above the eyes profound. Deathful their faces were, and yet The power of life was in them set-- Never forgot nor to forget: Sublime significance of mouth, Dilated nostril full of youth, And forehead royal with the truth. These faces were not multiplied Beyond your count, but side by side Did front the altar, glorified, Still as a vision, yet exprest Full as an action--look and geste Of buried saint in risen rest. The poet knew them. Faint and dim His spirits seemed to sink in him-- Then, like a dolphin, change and swim The current: these were poets true, Who died for Beauty as martyrs do For Truth--the ends being scarcely two. God's prophets of the Beautiful These poets were; of iron rule, The rugged cilix, serge of wool. Here Homer, with the broad suspense Of thunderous brows, and lips intense Of garrulous god-innocence. There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world: O eyes sublime With tears and laughters for all time! Here Æschylus, the women swooned To see so awful when he frowned As the gods did: he standeth crowned. Euripides, with close and mild Scholastic lips, that could be wild And laugh or sob out like a child Even in the classes. Sophocles, With that king's-look which down the trees Followed the dark effigies Of the lost Theban. Hesiod old, Who, somewhat blind and deaf and cold, Cared most for gods and bulls. And bold