"If all the crowns of earth must wound With prickings of the thorns He found,-- If saddest sighs swell sweetest sound,-- "What say ye unto this?--refuse This baptism in salt water?--choose Calm breasts, mute lips, and labour loose? "Or, O ye gifted givers! ye Who give your liberal hearts to me To make the world this harmony, "Are ye resigned that they be spent To such world's help?" The Spirits bent Their awful brows and said "Content." Content! it sounded like _Amen_ Said by a choir of mourning men; An affirmation full of pain And patience,--ay, of glorying And adoration, as a king Might seal an oath for governing. Then said the angel--and his face Lightened abroad until the place Grew larger for a moment's space,-- The long aisles flashing out in light, And nave and transept, columns white And arches crossed, being clear to sight As if the roof were off and all Stood in the noon-sun,--"Lo, I call To other hearts as liberal. "This pedal strikes out in the air: My instrument has room to bear Still fuller strains and perfecter. "Herein is room, and shall be room While Time lasts, for new hearts to come Consummating while they consume. "What living man will bring a gift Of his own heart and help to lift The tune?--The race is to the swift." So asked the angel. Straight the while, A company came up the aisle With measured step and sorted smile; Cleaving the incense-clouds that rise, With winking unaccustomed eyes And love-locks smelling sweet of spice. One bore his head above the rest As if the world were dispossessed, And one did pillow chin on breast, Right languid, an as he should faint; One shook his curls across his paint And moralized on worldly taint; One, slanting up his face, did wink The salt rheum to the eyelid's brink, To think--O gods! or--not to think. Some trod out stealthily and slow, As if the sun would fall in snow If they walked to instead of fro; And some, with conscious ambling free, Did shake their bells right daintily On hand and foot, for harmony; And some, composing sudden sighs In attitudes of point-device, Rehearsed impromptu agonies. And when this company drew near The spirits crowned, it might appear Submitted to a ghastly fear; As a sane eye in master-passion Constrains a maniac to the fashion Of hideous maniac imitation In the least geste--the dropping low O' the lid, the wrinkling of the brow, Exaggerate with mock and mow,-- So mastered was that company By the crowned vision utterly, Swayed to a maniac mockery. One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached With Homer's forehead, though he lacked An inch of any; and one racked His lower lip with restless tooth, As Pindar's rushing words forsooth Were pent behind it; one his smooth