Ephphatha

High matins now in bower and hall !
It is the Baptist's festival :
What showers of gold the sunbeams rain,
Through the tall window's purple pane !
What rich hues on the pavement lie,
A molten rainbow from the sky !

But light and shadow loveliest fall
Yonder, along the southward wall,
Where ceased, e'en now, the chaunted hymn
Of that grey man whose eyes are dim :
'Twas an old legend, quaintly sung.
Caught from some far barbaric tongue.

He asks, and bread of wheat they bring ;
He thirsts for water from the spring
Which flowed of old and still flows on,
With name and memory of St. John :
So fares the pilgrim in that hall,
E'en on the Baptist's festival.

" How sad a sight is blind old age ! "
Thus said the lady's youthful page :
" He eats, but sees not on that bread
What glorious radiance there is shed ;
He drinks from out that chalice fair,
Nor marks the sunlight glancing there."

" Watch ! gentle Ronald, watch and pray !
And hear once more an old man's lay :
I cannot see the morning pour'd,
Ruddy and rich on this gay board ;
I may not trace the noonday light,
Wherewith my bread and bowl are bright :

" But thou, whose words are sooth, hast said,
That brightness falls on this fair bread ;
Thou sayest — and thy tones be true —
This cup is tinged with heaven's own hue :
I trust thy voice ; I know from thee
That which I cannot hear nor see.

" Watch ! gentle Ronald, watch and pray !
It is the Baptist's holy day !
Go, where in old Morwenna's shrine,
They break the bread and bless the wine ;
There meekly bend thy trusting knee,
And touch what sight can never see.

" Thou wilt behold, thy lips may share
All that the cup and paten bear ;
But life unseen moves o'er that bread,
A glory on that wine is shed ;
A light comes down to breathe and be,
Though hid, like summer suns, from me.

" Watch ! gentle Ronald, watch and pray !
Day oft is night and night is day :
The arrowy glance of lady fair
Beholds not things that throng the air ;
The clear bright eye of youthful page
Hath duller ken than blind old age."

'Tis evensong in bower and hall
On the bold Baptist's festival ;
The harp is husht and mute the hymn,
The guest is gone whose eyes are dim,
But evermore to Ronald clung
That mystic measure, quaintly sung.