EUROPE.

Though dust your house, Justinian,

Still stands your lordliest shrine,

But the dark men who walk therein,

Know not of bread nor wine.

They fell long since upon your stones,

And made your colours dim,

Their priests who pray on Christmas Day

They sing no Christmas hymn.

But a voice at evening goes

From every climbing tower,

Crying a word you never heard,

A name of desert power.