No easier nor no quicker passed
The impracticable hours.

"'The brooding East with awe beheld
Her impious younger world.
The Roman tempest swelled and swelled,
And on her head was hurled.

"'The East bowed low before the blast,
In patience, deep disdain;
She let the legions thunder past,
And plunged in thought again.'"

The lad had a sympathetic voice; and there was a curious, pathetic
thrill in the tones of it as he went on to describe the result of that
awful musing--the new-born joy awakening in the East--the victorious
West veiling her eagles and snapping her sword before this strange new
worship of the Child--

"And centuries came, and ran their course,
And, unspent all that time,
Still, still went forth that Child's dear force,
And still was at its prime."

But now--in these later days around us!--

"Now he is dead! Far hence He lies
In the lorn Syrian town;
And on his grave, with shining eyes,
The Syrian stars look down."