(As they go forward towards the altar with their sons, there is the sound of a mighty earthquake, and again as of evening sunlight and morn-clear when the eyes see beyond the limits of vision.)

The cry of the soil is the cry of the mother,

All things have their part in the pains of birth;
The broken dream and love torn asunder

Are the paths to God and the purge of Earth.

(Then come Life's Wastrels, deep-eyed and world-sick, but unrepentant, because in the gall they drink is the true understanding of others' misery, the essential oil of shared pity.)

We who were wasters and wanton,

Weary, dreary, and damned,

Sick with self-comprehension,

With the dross of the things we shammed,

Now we find resurrection,

Wiping our old scores down,
Now for doing, not meaning,
The old indecision's gone.
Gone with ceaseless yearning,
Gone with black bitterness,
With tired thought, abused body,
And specious-gay mirthlessness.
At last the sun is glorious,
The clear star-lit night-air sweet,
Eyes, fearing no others, meet.
Joyous, clean, free all the hours,
We are men,

Shall die men,

Have lived men!

Redemption is ours!

(As they go forward from an infinite distance off, as though it were the sound of summer clouds singing together, is heard):

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Dominus Deus.

(While from the nearer ether sounds):

The law of despair and the sword
Is the law of the sun and the star,
The law of womb-birth and of love.
All things work together for good
To them that love God.

(Then follow Noble Wives with little children at their breasts, bravely smiling farewell to their husbands; Old Men ready and glad to give up their dreamed of old age; Calm Fathers with their only sons, and a host of Other Heroic, Patriot Hearts, while above the riot sound ever nearer and near the Hymning Voices):

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Dominus Deus.

(Then suddenly in an instant the wild clamor is hushed. There is a moment's silence, and then a thin white sound, glad as the dancing of sunlight on rippling waters, fills the air. It laughs, throbs, lilts, and flows, like the summer sea on long sand beaches, or little winds on August wheat fields. And Peace is there. Radiant, majestic, glowing, with little children playing about her, she advances quietly towards the altar and the air is filled with the scent of ineffable flowers.

The Rout of War fall back from the altar, which they have before hidden, disclosing thereon a wan, emaciated, hollow-eyed, blood-bruised little child, the youngest and oldest thing in the world, who stretches out her thin, tired arms toward Peace):

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Dominus Deus,

(sound the Voices in ecstasy, while Peace folds her into her bosom where with a little tired sob, having done her worst and her best, she nestles to rest.

Then the air is rent with a great shout):

Evoë! Evoë!

Laugh! the winter of war is sped!
Sing! summer and sun-glad the hours!
Peace comes! The graves of the dead
Are covered with flowers!
Evoë! Evoë!

(And brimming over the rim of the Bowl pour down from all sides the Processions of Peace. First the hours of Youth, Dawn, and Spring, waving blossoming branches and singing):

Spring, Spring, Spring, Spring!
Every branch is burgeoning.
Now the sun with the dawn
Gilds the fresh green of the lawn,
Where grass-blade vies with clover
In the turf's thick new cover.
Winter's deadlock strike is over,
Bees and birds and plants and men

All are busy once again,

For labour loved's but holiday!

Bind our brows then with arbutus,
Laughter-strong who dare dispute us
Regal rights of vernal sway?

(Next the aureate hours of Summer, Day, and Growth, with golden laurel boughs):

Sing, bird! whisper, tree!

Winds, make melody!

Summer's here, hearts are free.
Mates wait each wight's choosing,
Love's gain's Love's losing.
Phlox, stocks, and hollyhocks

Fill the garden's fragrant borders;
Gold alyssum on the rocks
Lures the miser honey-hoarders,

With dim dianthus' misty stars,

Most humble yet most sweet of flowers,
And fragile fuchsia bells that ring

The churching summer and knell of spring.
Harvests ripen and grow mellow,

Branches bend with fragrant fruit,
While the sun feeds the fallow

The cicada's throbbing note

Thrills through field and meadow;

And where the water-fern's green fronds

Fringe the lily-padded ponds

Iridescent dragon flies

Catch the setting orb's last rays.

(And last the soft hours of Evening, Autumn, and Com

pletion):

Long shadows soothe the wide-flung hills to sleep,

Rosaureate horizons melt gold to grey,

Day's intimate sky recedes to night's far fields
Where browsing star-flocks pasture, and the scent
Of dusk-sweet flowers from the garden blows.
Twittering the swallows wing about the eaves,
The ghosts of garnered harvests haunt the weald.
Oh sweet to rest long evenings after toil,
Safe housed and happy, when tomorrow holds
No tragedy except of falling leaves!

(When the Processions of the Glory of Peace have passed down the steps and into the Bowl, they advance to where Peace stands and, kneeling before her, hold out their offerings for her benediction, while from above sounds once more, glorious and triumphant):

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Sanctus, Sanctus,

Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua,

Hosanna in excelsis.

Amen. Amen.

(After this they rise and turn outwards to bear the Joy of Peace to the world, and as they pass upward, they sing):

Ecce nunc, benedicite Dominum, omnes servi Domini.
Magna opera Domini: exquisita in omnes voluntas ejus.
Quis sicut Dominus Deus noster, qui in altis habitat: et
humilia respicit in coelo et in terra?

Non nobis, Domine, non nobis: sed nomini tuo da gloriam.

A facie Domini mota est terra: a facie Dei Jacob.

Qui convertit petram in stagna aquarum: et rupen in fontes aquarum. In pace in idipsum dormiam, et requiescam.

Quoniam tu, Domine, singulariter in spe constituisti me.

Per omnia saecula saeculorum

Pax Domini sit semper nobiscum.

THE END OF THE ALLEGORY