Chapter XCIII

And every altar, Greek and Goth,
Is cover’d with its snowy cloth;
And kneeling Christians, every where,
Are fed with sacramental fare.
In farthest Ind, I see them bow,
The naked shape, the swarthy brow,
Where Gunga’s wave, so dark before,
Hath borne the northern bishop’s prore;
Aye there, ’neath vault and swelling dome,
And oh, in my green forest home,
All—all are kneeling!—and on high,
There’s one communion in the sky:
For there all angels, and the dead,
Are one, in Him that suffered!