I
past beside the reverend walls
In which of old I wore the gown;
I roved at random thro’ the town,
And
saw the tumult of the halls;
And
heard one more in college fanes
The storm their high-built organs make,
And thunder-music, rolling, shake
The
prophet blazon’d on the panes;
And
caught one more the distant shout,
The measured pulse of racing oars
Among the willows; paced the shores
And
many a bridge, and all about
The
same gray flats again, and felt
The same, but not the same; and last
Up that long walk of limes I past
To
see the rooms in which he dwelt.
Another
name was on the door:
I linger’d; all within was noise
Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys
That
crash’d the glass and beat the floor;
Where
once we held debate, a band
Of youthful friends, on mind and art,
And labour, and the changing mart,
And
all the framework of the land;
When
one would aim an arrow fair,
But send it slackly from the string;
And one would pierce an outer ring,
And
one an inner, here and there;
And
last the master-bowman, he,
Would cleave the mark. A willing ear
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear
The
rapt oration flowing free
From
point to point, with power and grace
And music in the bounds of law,
To those conclusions when we saw
The
God within him light his face,
And
seem to lift the form, and glow
In azure orbits heavenly wise;
And over those ethereal eyes
The
bar of Michael Angelo.
