Con. For He who feeds the ravens, promisethOur bread and water sure, and leads us onBy peaceful streams in pastures green to lie,Beneath our Shepherd’s eye.

Lewis. In such a nook, now,To nestle from this noisy world—

Con. And dropThe burden of thyself upon the threshold.

Lewis. Think what rich dreams may haunt those lowly roofs!

Con. Rich dreams,—and more; their dreams will find fulfilment—Their discipline breeds strength—’Tis we aloneCan join the patience of the labouring oxUnto the eagle’s foresight,—not a fancyOf ours, but grows in time to mighty deeds;Victories in heavenly warfare: but yours, yours, Sir,Oh, choke them, choke the panting hopes of youth,Ere they be born, and wither in slow pains,Cast by for the next bauble!

Lewis. ’Tis too true!I dread no toil; toil is the true knight’s pastime—Faith fails, the will intense and fixed, so easyTo thee, cut off from life and love, whose powersIn one close channel must condense their stream:But I, to whom this life blooms rich and busy,Whose heart goes out a-Maying all the yearIn this new Eden—in my fitful thoughtWhat skill is there, to turn my faith to sight—To pierce blank Heaven, like some trained falconerAfter his game, beyond all human ken?

Wal. And walk into the bog beneath your feet.

Con. And change it to firm land by magic step!Build there cloud-cleaving spires, beneath whose shadeGreat cities rise for vassals; to call forthFrom plough and loom the rank unlettered hinds,And make them saints and heroes—send them forthTo sway with heavenly craft the spirit of princes;Change nations’ destinies, and conquer worldsWith love, more mighty than the sword; what, Count?Art thou ambitious? practical? we monksCan teach you somewhat there too.

Lewis. Be it so;But love you have forsworn; and what were lifeWithout that chivalry, which bends man’s kneesBefore God’s image and his glory, bestRevealed in woman’s beauty?

Con. Ah! poor worldlings!Little you dream what maddening ecstasies,What rich ideals haunt, by day and night,Alone, and in the crowd, even to the death,The servitors of that celestial courtWhere peerless Mary, sun-enthroned, reigns,In whom all Eden dreams of womanhood,All grace of form, hue, sound, all beauty strewnLike pearls unstrung, about this ruined world,Have their fulfilment and their archetype.Why hath the rose its scent, the lily grace?To mirror forth her 

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