Prelude

Hush'd is each busy shout:
The reverent people wait,
To see the sacred pomp stream out
Beside the temple-gate.

The bull with garlands hung,
Stern priests in vesture grim:
With rolling voices swiftly sung
Peals out the jocund hymn.

In front, behind, beside,
Beneath the chiming towers,
Pass boys that fling the censer wide,
And striplings scattering flowers.

Victim or minister
I dare not claim, to be,
But in the concourse and the stir,
There shall be room for me.

The victim feels the stroke:
The priests are bow'd in prayer: —
I feed the porch with fragrant smoke,
Strew roses on the stair.