TWO LEADERS

O great and wise, clear-souled and high of heart,

One the last flower of Catholic love, that grows

Amid bare thorns their only thornless rose,

From the fierce juggling of the priests’ loud mart

Yet alien, yet unspotted and apart

From the blind hard foul rout whose shameless shows

Mock the sweet heaven whose secret no man knows

With prayers and curses and the soothsayer's art;

One like a storm-god of the northern foam

Strong, wrought of rock that breasts and breaks the sea

And thunders back its thunder, rhyme for rhyme

Answering, as though to outroar the tides of time

And bid the world's wave back — what song should be

Theirs that with praise would bring and sing you home?

With all our hearts we praise you whom ye hate,

High souls that hate us; for our hopes are higher,

And higher than yours the goal of our desire,

Though high your ends be as your hearts are great.

Your world of Gods and kings, of shrine and state,

Was of the night when hope and fear stood nigher,

Wherein men walked by light of stars and fire

Till man by day stood equal with his fate.

Honour not hate we give you, love not fear,

Last prophets of past kind, who fill the dome

Of great dead Gods with wrath and wail, nor hear

Time's word and man's: “Go honoured hence, go home,

Night's childless children; here your hour is done;

Pass with the stars, and leave us with the sun.”