Thou drawest all things, small or great, To thee, beside the Western Gate. O lion's whelp! that hidest fast I know thy cunning and thy greed, And all thy glory loves to tell Drop down, O fleecy Fog! and hide Her sceptic sneer, and all her pride. Wrap her, O Fog! in gown and hood Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. Hide me her faults, her sin and blame; With thy gray mantle cloak her shame! So shall she, cowlèd, sit and pray Till morning bears her sins away. Then rise, O fleecy Fog! and raise Be as the cloud that flecks the seas Above her smoky argosies. When forms familiar shall give place To stranger speech and newer face; When all her throes and anxious fears Lie hushed in the repose of years; |