But hark! the bells are beginning to chime;
And I feel that I am growing hoarse. 
I will put an end to my discourse,
And leave the rest for some other time. 
For the bells themselves are the best of preachers;
Their brazen lips are learned teachers,
From their pulpits of stone, in the upper air,
Sounding aloft, without crack or flaw,
Shriller than trumpets under the Law,
Now a sermon and now a prayer. 
The clangorous hammer is the tongue,
This way, that way, beaten and swung,
That from mouth of brass, as from Mouth of Gold,
May be taught the Testaments, New and Old. 
And above it the great crossbeam of wood
Representeth the Holy Rood,
Upon which, like the bell, our hopes are hung. 
And the wheel wherewith it is swayed and rung
Is the mind of man, that round and round
Sways, and maketh the tongue to sound! 
And the rope, with its twisted cordage three,
Denoteth the Scriptural Trinity
Of Morals, and Symbols, and History;
And the upward and downward motions show
That we touch upon matters high and low;
And the constant change and transmutation
Of action and of contemplation,
Downward, the Scripture brought from on high,
Upward, exalted again to the sky;
Downward, the literal interpretation,
Upward, the Vision and Mystery!

And now, my hearers, to make an end,
I have only one word more to say;
In the church, in honor of Easter day,
Will be represented a Miracle Play;
And I hope you will all have the grace to attend. 
Christ bring us at last So his felicity! 
Pax vobiscum! et Benedicite!

IN THE CATHEDRAL.

* * * * *

CHAUNT. 
                   Kyrie Eleison! 
                   Christe Eleison!

Elsie. I am at home here in my Father’s house!  These paintings of the Saints upon the walls Have all familiar and benignant faces.

Prince Henry. The portraits of the family of God!  Thine own hereafter shall be placed among them.

Elsie. How very grand it is and wonderful! 
Never have I beheld a church so splendid! 
Such columns, and such arches, and such windows,
So many tombs and statues in the chapels,
And under them so many confessionals. 
They must be for the rich.  I should not like
To tell my sins in such a church as this. 
Who built it?

Prince Henry. A great master of his craft,
Erwin von Steinbach; but not he alone,
For many generations labored with him. 
Children that came to see these Saints in stone,
As day by day out of the blocks they rose,
Grew old and died, and still the work went on,
And on, and on, and is not yet completed. 
The generation that succeeds our own
Perhaps may finish it.  The architect
Built his great heart into these sculptured stones,
And with him toiled his children, and their lives
Were builded, with his own, into the walls,
As offerings unto God.  You see that statue
Fixing its joyous, but deep-wrinkled eyes
Upon the Pillar of the Angels yonder. 
That is the image of the master, carved
By the fair hand of his own child, Sabina.