They pour their glittering treasures forth, Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth Take up the song they sing. The green earth sends her incense up From many a mountain shrine; From folded leaf and dewy cup She pours her sacred wine. The mists above the morning rills Rise white as wings of prayer; The altar-curtains of the hills Are sunset's purple air. The winds with hymns of praise are loud, Or low with sobs of pain,-- The thunder-organ of the cloud, The dropping tears of rain. With drooping head and branches crossed The twilight forest grieves, Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost From all its sunlit leaves. The blue sky is the temple's arch, Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march The chorus of a prayer. So Nature keeps the reverent frame With which her years began, And all her signs and voices shame The prayerless heart of man. . . . . . The singer ceased. The moon's white rays Fell on the rapt, still face of her. "_Allah il Allah_! He hath praise From all things," said the Traveller. "Oft from the desert's silent nights, And mountain hymns of sunset lights, My heart has felt rebuke, as in his tent The Moslem's prayer has shamed my Christian knee unbent." He paused, and lo! far, faint, and slow The bells in Newbury's steeples tolled The twelve dead hours; the lamp burned low; The singer sought her canvas fold. One sadly said, "At break of day We strike our tent and go our way." But one made answer cheerily, "Never fear, We'll pitch this tent of ours in type another year."