VII.

Shall poets change for bay the crown divine Wreathing the head of Him about whom throng Life’s tenderest flowers, who holds art’s perfect song In his pierced hands?—pure gift in holiest shrine!— From whose rent side the consecrating flood Doth cleanse the poet’s thought from earthly stain, Him king anointed o’er a grand domain By true inheritance of royal blood; In whose wide heart, broken for very love, Lies master-key to all true harmonies, So tuned, no base, discordant melodies Shall jar earth’s music saints shall sing above; So tuned, may wake in sweetness weakest string, Immortal anthems loyal echoing.