And her perfection one;

Given all he had; and now--when all was given--
Far spent, within a private shade,
Heard the loud organ pealing praise to Heaven,
And learned why man is made.--

To break his strength, yet always to be brave;
To preach, and act, the Crucified ...
Sweep by, O Prince and Prelate, up the nave,
And fill it with your pride!

Better than ye what made th' old temples great,
Because he loved, he understood;
Indignant that his darling, less in state,
Should lack a martyr's blood.

She hath it now. O mason, strip away
Her scaffolding, the flower disclose!
Lay by the tools with his o'er-wearied clay--
But She shall bloom unto its Judgment Day,
His ever-living Rose!

III

C. W. S.

_The Fourth Bishop of Truro
May_ 1912

Prince of courtesy defeated,
Heir of hope untimely cheated,
Throned awhile he sat, and, seated,

Saw his Cornish round him gather;
"Teach us how to live, good Father!"
How to die he taught us rather:

Heard the startling trumpet sound him,
Smiled upon the feast around him,
Rose, and wrapp'd his coat, and bound him

When beyond the awful surges,
Bathed in dawn on Syrian verges,
God! thy star, thy Cross emerges.

_And so sing we all to it--_

Crux, in coelo lux superna,
Sis in carnis hac taberna
Mihi pedibus lucerna:

Quo vexillum dux cohortis
Sistet, super flumen Mortis,
Te, flammantibus in portis!

ALMA MATER

_Know you her secret none can utter?_
Hers of the Book, the tripled Crown?
Still on the spire the pigeons flutter,
Still by the gateway flits the gown;
Still on the street, from corbel and gutter,
Faces of stone look down.

Faces of stone, and stonier faces--
Some from library windows wan
Forth on her gardens, her green spaces,
Peer and turn to their books anon.
Hence, my Muse, from the green oases
Gather the tent, begone!

Nay, should she by the pavement linger
Under the rooms where once she played,
Who from the feast would rise to fling her