XXV.

Yea, soon, no consonant unsmooth Our smile-tuned lips shall reach; Sounds sweet as Hellas spake in youth Shall glide into our speech: (What music, certes, can you find As soft as voices which are kind?)

And often, by the joy without And in us, overcome, We, through our musing, shall let float Such poems,--sitting dumb,-- As Pindar might have writ if he Had tended sheep in Arcady;

Or AEschylus--the pleasant fields He died in, longer knowing; Or Homer, had men's sins and shields Been lost in Meles flowing; Or Poet Plato, had the undim Unsetting Godlight broke on him.

Choose me the cave most worthy choice, To make a place for prayer, And I will choose a praying voice To pour our spirits there: How silverly the echoes run! _Thy will be done,--thy will be done._