xxiii.
There hoar Learning, forgetful warden,
Leans on his staff and smiling sees
Maidens pillage his thornset garden,
Dreaming of new Hesperides.
xxiv.
And Hope looks forth from her eastern tower
For these, who have fed on the fruits divine,
To return to the radiant gates, with dower
Of fragrant deeds to enwreathe the shrine.
xxv.
Not Indian gems nor Sabasan spices,
Silken wefts nor ivories rare
Frosted over with quaint devices,
Are the tribute due at that altar-stair.
xxvi.
Richer the treasure our crypt inherits,
Prayers for lilies, and words of ruth
For odorous balms ; for diamonds, spirits
Iridescent with central truth.
xxvii.
Such gifts were theirs, whose names are spoken
With filial praise in our palace gate,
Their gold and silver but chrismal token
Of lives anointed and consecrate.
