O brotherhood, with bay-crowned brows undaunted,
Who passed serene along our crowded ways,
Speak with us still! For we like Saul are haunted:
Harp sullen spirits from these later days!
Whate’er high hope ye had for man your brother,
Breathe it, nor leave him like a prisoned slave
To stare through bars upon a sight no other
Than clouded skies that lighten on a grave.
In these still alcoves give us gentle meeting,
From dusky shelves kind arms about us fold,
Till the New Age shall feel her chilled heart beating
Restfully on the warm heart of the Old.
Till we shall hear your voices mild and winning
Steal through our doubt and discord, as outswells
At fiercest noon, above a city’s dinning,
The chiming music of cathedral bells:
Music that lifts the thought from trodden places
And coarse confusions that around us lie,
Up to the calm of high cloud-silvered spaces,
Where the tall spire points through the soundless sky.