I Heard Immanuel Singing

(The poem shows the Master, with his work done, singing to free his heart in Heaven.)     This poem is intended to be half said, half sung, very softly, to the well-known tune: -                  "Last night I lay a-sleeping,                  There came a dream so fair,                  I stood in Old Jerusalem                  Beside the temple there, - " etc.     Yet this tune is not to be fitted on, arbitrarily.    It is here given to suggest the manner of handling rather than determine it.                          # To be sung. #          I heard Immanuel singing          Within his own good lands,          I saw him bend above his harp.          I watched his wandering hands          Lost amid the harp-strings;          Sweet, sweet I heard him play.          His wounds were altogether healed.          Old things had passed away.          All things were new, but music.          The blood of David ran          Within the Son of David,          Our God, the Son of Man.          He was ruddy like a shepherd.          His bold young face, how fair.          Apollo of the silver bow          Had not such flowing hair.                          # To be read very softly, but in spirited response. #          I saw Immanuel singing          On a tree-girdled hill.          The glad remembering branches          Dimly echoed still          The grand new song proclaiming          The Lamb that had been slain.          New-built, the Holy City          Gleamed in the murmuring plain.          The crowning hours were over.          The pageants all were past.          Within the many mansions          The hosts, grown still at last,          In homes of holy mystery          Slept long by crooning springs          Or waked to peaceful glory,          A universe of Kings.                          # To be sung. #          He left his people happy.          He wandered free to sigh          Alone in lowly friendship          With the green grass and the sky.          He murmured ancient music          His red heart burned to sing          Because his perfect conquest          Had grown a weary thing.          No chant of gilded triumph -          His lonely song was made          Of Art's deliberate freedom;          Of minor chords arrayed          In soft and shadowy colors          That once were radiant flowers: -          The Rose of Sharon, bleeding          In Olive-shadowed bowers: -          And all the other roses          In the songs of East and West          Of love and war and worshipping,          And every shield and crest          Of thistle or of lotus          Or sacred lily wrought          In creeds and psalms and palaces          And temples of white thought: -                          # To be read very softly, yet in spirited response. #          All these he sang, half-smiling          And weeping as he smiled,          Laughing, talking to his harp          As to a new-born child: -          As though the arts forgotten          But bloomed to prophecy          These careless, fearless harp-strings,          New-crying in the sky.                          # To be sung. #          "When this his hour of sorrow          For flowers and Arts of men          Has passed in ghostly music,"          I asked my wild heart then -          What will he sing to-morrow,          What wonder, all his own          Alone, set free, rejoicing,          With a green hill for his throne?          What will he sing to-morrow          What wonder all his own          Alone, set free, rejoicing,          With a green hill for his throne?