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THE PROCESSION.
"The peace which passeth all understanding," disclosed itself in her looks and movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed moonlight.
Coleridge.
There were trampling sounds of many feet,
And music rush'd through the crowded street;
Proud music, such as tells the sky,
Of a chief returned from victory.
There were banners to the winds unroll'd,
With haughty words on each blazon'd fold;
High battle-names, which had rung of yore,
When lances clash'd on the Syrian shore.
