William Alexander, Archbishop of Armagh (1824–1911)

METHOUGHT I met a Lady yester even;

A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail,

Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam’d to Heaven

White as a moonlit sail.

She spake: ‘On this pale brow are looks of youth,

Yet angels listening on the argent floor

Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth

Nine hundred years and more;

‘And Isis knows what time-grey towers rear’d up,

Gardens and groves and cloister’d halls are mine;

When quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup

Draughts of ambrosial wine.

‘He knows how night by night my lamps are lit,

How day by day my bells are ringing clear,—

Mother of ancient lore and Attic wit

And discipline severe.

‘And I have led my children on steep mountains

By fine attraction of my spirit brought

Up to the dark inexplicable fountains

That are the springs of thought:

‘Led them, where on the old poetic shore

The flowers that change not with the changing moon

Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the sycamore

About the bees in June.

‘And I will bear them as on eagle’s wings,

To leave them bow’d before the sapphire Throne,

High o’er the haunts where dying Pleasure sings

With sweet and swan-like tone.

‘And I will lead the age’s great expansions,

Progressive circles t’ward thought’s Sabbath rest,

And point beyond them to the many mansions

Where Christ is with the blest.