Pink cheeks did rumple passionate Like Æschylus, and tried to prate On trolling tongue of fate and fate; One set her eyes like Sappho's--or Any light woman's; one forbore Like Dante, or any man as poor In mirth, to let a smile undo His hard-shut lips; and one that drew Sour humours from his mother, blew His sunken cheeks out to the size Of most unnatural jollities, Because Anacreon looked jest-wise; So with the rest: it was a sight A great world-laughter would requite, Or great world-wrath, with equal right Out came a speaker from that crowd To speak for all, in sleek and proud Exordial periods, while he bowed His knee before the angel--"Thus, O angel who hast called for us, We bring thee service emulous, "Fit service from sufficient soul, Hand-service to receive world's dole, Lip-service in world's ear to roll "Adjusted concords soft enow To hear the wine-cups passing, through, And not too grave to spoil the show: "Thou, certes, when thou askest more, O sapient angel, leanest o'er The window-sill of metaphor. "To give our hearts up? fie! that rage Barbaric antedates the age; It is not done on any stage. "Because your scald or gleeman went With seven or nine-stringed instrument Upon his back,--must ours be bent? "We are not pilgrims, by your leave; No, nor yet martyrs; if we grieve, It is to rhyme to--summer eve: "And if we labour, it shall be As suiteth best with our degree, In after-dinner reverie." More yet that speaker would have said, Poising between his smiles fair-fed Each separate phrase till finishèd; But all the foreheads of those born And dead true poets flashed with scorn Betwixt the bay leaves round them worn, Ay, jetted such brave fire that they, The new-come, shrank and paled away Like leaden ashes when the day Strikes on the hearth. A spirit-blast, A presence known by power, at last Took them up mutely: they had passed. And he our pilgrim-poet saw Only their places, in deep awe, What time the angel's smile did draw His gazing upward. Smiling on, The angel in the angel shone, Revealing glory in benison; Till, ripened in the light which shut The poet in, his spirit mute Dropped sudden as a perfect fruit; He fell before the angel's feet, Saying, "If what is true is sweet, In something I may compass it: "For, where my worthiness is poor, My will stands richly at the door To pay shortcomings evermore. "Accept me therefore: not for price And not for pride my sacrifice Is tendered, for my soul is nice "And will beat down those dusty seeds Of bearded corn if she succeeds In soaring while the covey feeds. "I soar, I am drawn up like the lark To its white cloud--so high my mark, Albeit my wing is small and dark. "I ask no wages, seek no fame: Sew me, for shroud round face and name, God's banner of the oriflamme.