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Alfred Austin - The Door Of Humility
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 Alack! Imagination might
   As lief with rustic Virgil roam,
 Reverent, or, welcomed guest, alight
   At Pliny`s philosophic home;

 Hear one majestically trace
   Rome`s world-wide sway from wattled wall,
 And read upon the other`s face
   The omens of an Empire`s fall.

XXVIII

 Like moonlight seen through forest leaves,
   She shines upon me from afar,
 What time men reap the ripened sheaves,
   And Heaven rains many a falling star.

 I gaze up to her lofty height,
   And feel how far we dwell apart:
 O if I could, this night, this night,
   Fold her full radiance to my heart!

 But She in Heaven, and I on earth,
   Still journey on, but each alone;
 She, maiden Queen of sacred birth,
   Who with no consort shares her throne.

XXIX

 What if She ever thought She saw
   The self within myself prefer
 Communion with the silent awe
   Of far-off mountains more than Her;

 That Nature hath the mobile grace
   To make life with our moods agree,
 And so had grown the Loved One`s face,
   Since it nor checked nor chided me;

 Or from the tasks that irk and tire
   I sought for comfort from the Muse,
 Because it grants the mind`s desire
   All that familiar things refuse.

 How vain such thought! The face, the form,
   Of mountain summits but express,
 Clouded or clear, in sun or storm,
   Feebly Her spirit`s loftiness.

 Did I explore from pole to pole,
   In Nature`s aspect I should find
 But faint reflections of Her soul,
   Dim adumbrations of Her mind.

 O come and test with lake, with stream,
   With mountain, which the stronger be,
 Thou, my divinest dearest dream,
   My Muse, and more than Muse, to me!

XXX

 They tell me that Jehovah speaks
   In silent grove, on lonely strand,
 And summit of the mountain peaks;
   Yet there I do not understand.

 The stars, disdainful of my thought,
   Majestic march toward their goal,
 And to my nightly watch have brought
   No explanation to my soul.

 The truth I seek I cannot find,
   In air or sky, on land or sea;
 If the hills have their secret mind,
   They will not yield it up to me:

 Like one who lost mid lonely hills
   Still seeks but cannot find his way,
 Since guide is none save winding rills,
   That seem themselves, too, gone astray.

 And so from rise to set of sun,
   At glimmering dawn, in twilight haze,
 I but behold the face of One
   Who veils her face, and weeps, and prays.

 What know I that She doth not know?
   What I know not, She understands:
 With heavenly gifts She overflows,
   While I have only empty hands.

 O weary wanderer! Best forego
   This questioning of wind and wave.
 For you the sunshine and the snow,
   The womb, the cradle, and the grave.


XXXI

 How blest, when organ concords swell,
   And anthems are intoned, are they
 Who neither reason nor rebel,
   But meekly bow their heads and pray.

 And such the peasants mountain-bred,
   Who hail to-day with blithe accord
 Her Feast Who to the Angel said,
   ``Behold the Handmaid of the Lord!``

 Downward they wind from pastoral height,
   Or hamlet grouped round shattered towers,
 To wend to shrine more richly dight,
   And bring their gift of wilding flowers;

 Their gifts, their griefs, their daily needs,
   And lay these at Her statue`s base,
 Who never, deem they, intercedes
   Vainly before the Throne of Grace.

 Shall I, because I stand apart,
   A stranger to their pious vows,
 Scorn their humility of heart
   That pleads before the Virgin Spouse,

 Confiding that the Son will ne`er,
   If in His justice wroth with them,
 Refuse to harken to Her prayer
   Who suckled Him in Bethlehem?

 Of all the intercessors born
   By man`s celestial fancy, none
 Hath helped the sorrowing, the forlorn,
   Lowly and lone, as She hath done.

 The maiden faithful to Her shrine
   Bids demons of temptation flee,
 And mothers fruitful as the vine
   Retain their vestal purity.

 Too trustful love, by lust betrayed,
   And by cold worldlings unforgiven,
 Unto Her having wept and prayed,
   Faces its fate, consoled and shriven.

 The restless, fiercely probing mind
   No honey gleans, though still it stings.
 What comfort doth the spirit find
   In Reason`s endless reasonings?

 They have no solace for my grief,
   Compassion none for all my pain:
 They toss me like the fluttering leaf,
   And leave me to the wind and rain.


XXXII

 If Conscience be God`s Law to Man,
   Then Conscience must perforce arraign
 Whatever falls beneath the ban
   Of that allotted Suzerain.

 And He, who bids us not to swerve,
   Whither the wayward passions draw,
 From its stern sanctions, must observe
   The limits of the self-same Law.

 Yet, if obedient Conscience scan
   The sum of wrongs endured and done
 Neither by act nor fault of Man,
   They rouse it to rebellion.

 Life seems of life by life bereft
   Through some immitigable curse,
 And Man sole moral being left
   In a non-moral Universe.

 My Conscience would my Will withstand,
   Did Will project a world like this:
 Better Eternal vacuum still,
   Than murder, lust, and heartlessness!

 If Man makes Conscience, then being good
   Is only being worldly wise,
 And universal brotherhood
   A comfortable compromise.

 O smoke of War! O blood-steeped sod!
   O groans of fratricidal strife!
 Who will explain the ways of God,
   That I may be at peace with life!

 The moral riddle `tis that haunts,
   Primeval and unending curse,
 Racking the mind when pulpit vaunts
   A Heaven-created Universe.

 Yet whence came Life, and how begin?
   Rolleth the globe by choice or chance?
 Dear Lord! Why longer shut me in
   This prison-house of ignorance!


FLORENCE


XXXIII

 City acclaimed ere Dante`s days
   Fair, and baptized in field of flowers,
 Once more I scan with tender gaze
   Your glistening domes, your storied towers.

 I feel as if long years had flown
   Since first with eager heart I came,
 And, girdled by your mountain zone,
   Found you yet fairer than your fame.

 It was the season purple-sweet
   When figs are plump, and grapes are pressed,
 And all your sons with following feet
   Bore a dead Poet to final rest.

 You seemed to fling your gates ajar,
   And softly lead me by the hand,
 Saying, ``Behold! henceforth you are
   No stranger in the Tuscan land.``

 And though no love my love can wean
   From native crag and cradling sea,
 Yet Florence from that hour hath been
   More than a foster-nurse to me.

 When mount I terraced slopes arrayed
   In bridal bloom of peach and pear,
 While under olive`s phantom shade
   Lupine and beanflower scent the air,

 The wild-bees hum round golden bay,
   The green frog sings on fig-tree bole,
 And, see! down daisy-whitened way
   Come the slow steers and swaying pole.

 The fresh-pruned vine-stems, curving, bend
   Over the peaceful wheaten spears,
 And with the glittering sunshine blend
   Their transitory April tears.

 O`er wall and trellis trailed and wound,
   Hang roses blushing, roses pale;
 And, hark! what was that silvery sound?
   The first note of the nightingale.

 Curtained, I close my lids and dream
   Of Beauty seen not but surmised,
 And, lulled by scent and song, I seem
   Immortally imparadised.

 When from the deep sweet swoon I wake
   And gaze past slopes of grape and grain,
 Where Arno, like some lonely lake,
   Silvers the far-off seaward plain,

 I see celestial sunset fires
   That lift us from this earthly leaven,
 And darkly silent cypress spires
   Pointing the way from hill to Heaven.

 Then something more than mortal steals
   Over the wavering twilight air,
 And, messenger of nightfall, peals
   From each crowned peak a call to prayer.

 And now the last meek prayer is said,
   And, in the hallowed hush, there is
 Only a starry dome o`erhead,
   Propped by columnar cypresses.


XXXIV

 Re-roaming through this palaced town,
   I suddenly, `neath grim-barred pile,
 Catch sight of Dante`s awful frown,
   Or Leonardo`s mystic smile;

Then, swayed by memory`s fancy, stroll
   To where from May-day`s flaming pyre
 Savonarola`s austere soul
   Went up to Heaven in tongues of fire;

 Or Buonarroti`s plastic hand
   Made marble block from Massa`s steep
 Dawn into Day at his command,
   Then plunged it into Night and Sleep.

 No later wanderings can dispel
   The glamour of the bygone years;
 And, through the streets I know so well,
   I scarce can see my way for tears.


XXXV

 A sombre shadow seems to fall
   On comely altar, transept fair;
 The saints are still on frescoed wall,
   But who comes thither now for prayer?

 Men throng from far-off stranger land,
   To stare, to wonder, not to kneel,
 With map and guide-book in their hand
   To tell them what to think and feel.

 They scan, they prate, they marvel why
   The figures still expressive glow,
 Oblivious they were painted by
   Adoring Frà Angelico.

 Did Dante from his tomb afar
   Return, his wrongs redressed at last,
 And see you, Florence, as you are,
   Half alien to your gracious Past,

 Finding no Donatello now,
   No reverent Giotto `mong the quick,
 To glorify ascetic vow
   Of Francis or of Dominic;

 Self-exiled by yet sterner fate
   Than erst, he would from wandering cease,
 And, ringing at monastic gate,
   Plead, ``I am one who craves for peace.``

 And what he sought but ne`er could find,
   Shall I, less worthy, hope to gain,
 The freedom of the tranquil mind,
   The lordship over loss and pain?

 More than such peace I found when I
   Did first, in unbound youth, repair
 To Tuscan shrine, Ausonian sky.
   I found it, for I brought it there.


XXXVI

 Yet Art brings peace, itself is Peace,
   And, as I on these frescoes gaze,
 I feel all fretful tumults cease
   And harvest calm of mellower days.

 For Soul too hath its seasons. Time,
   That leads Spring, Summer, Autumn, round,
 Makes our ephemeral passions chime
   With something permanent and profound.

 And, as in Nature, April oft
   Strives to revert to wintry hours,
 But shortly upon garth and croft
   Re-sheds warm smiles and moistening showers,

 Or, for one day, will Autumn wear
   The gayer garments of the Spring,
 And then athwart the wheatfields bare
   Again her graver shadows fling;

 So, though the Soul hath moods that veer,
   And seem to hold no Rule in awe,
 Like the procession of the year,
   It too obeys the sovran Law.

 Nor Art itself brings settled peace,
   Until the mind is schooled to know
 That gusts subside and tumults cease
   Only in sunset`s afterglow.

 Life`s contradictions vanish then,
   Husht thought replacing clashing talk
 Among the windy ways of men.
   `Tis in the twilight Angels walk.


ROME


XXXVII

 The last warm gleams of sunset fade
   From cypress spire and stonepine dome,
 And, in the twilight`s deepening shade,
   Lingering, I scan the wrecks of Rome.

 Husht the Madonna`s Evening Bell;
   The steers lie loosed from wain and plough;
 The vagrant monk is in his cell,
   The meek nun-novice cloistered now.

 Pedant`s presumptuous voice no more
   Vexes the spot where Caesar trod,
 And o`er the pavement`s soundless floor
   Come banished priest and exiled God.

 The lank-ribbed she-wolf, couched among
   The regal hillside`s tangled scrubs,
 With doting gaze and fondling tongue
   Suckles the Vestal`s twin-born cubs.

 Yet once again Evander leads
   Æneas to his wattled home,
 And, throned on Tiber`s fresh-cut reeds,
   Talks of burnt Troy and rising Rome.

From out the tawny dusk one hears
   The half-feigned scream of Sabine maids,
 The rush to arms, then swift the tears
   That separate the clashing blades.

 The Lictors with their fasces throng
   To quell the Commons` rising roar,
 As Tullia`s chariot flames along,
   Splashed with her murdered father`s gore.

 Her tresses free from band or comb,
   Love-dimpled Venus, lithe and tall,
 And fresh as Fiumicino`s foam,
   Mounts her pentelic pedestal.

 With languid lids, and lips apart,
   And curving limbs like wave half-furled,
 Unarmed she dominates the heart,
   And without sceptre sways the world.

 Nerved by her smile, avenging Mars
   Stalks through the Forum`s fallen fanes,
 Or, changed of mien and healed of scars,
   Threads sylvan slopes and vineyard plains.

 With waves of song from wakening lyre
   Apollo routs the wavering night,
 While, parsley-crowned, the white-robed choir
   Wind chanting up the Sacred Height,

 Where Jove, with thunder-garlands wreathed,
   And crisp locks frayed like fretted foam,
 Sits with his lightnings half unsheathed,
   And frowns against the foes of Rome.

 You cannot kill the Gods. They still
   Reclaim the thrones where once they reigned,
 Rehaunt the grove, remount the rill,
   And renovate their rites profaned.

 Diana`s hounds still lead the chase,
   Still Neptune`s Trident crests the sea,
 And still man`s spirit soars through space
   On feathered heels of Mercury.

 No flood can quench the Vestals` Fire;
   The Flamen`s robes are still as white
 As ere the Salii`s armoured choir
   Were drowned by droning anchorite.

 The saint may seize the siren`s seat,
   The shaveling frown where frisked the Faun;
 Ne`er will, though all beside should fleet,
   The Olympian Presence be withdrawn.

 Here, even in the noontide glare,
   The Gods, recumbent, take their ease;
 Go look, and you will find them there,
   Slumbering behind some fallen frieze.

 But most, when sunset glow hath paled,
   And come, as now, the twilight hour,
 In vesper vagueness dimly veiled
   I feel their presence and their power.

 What though their temples strew the ground,
   And to the ruin owls repair,
 Their home, their haunt, is all around;
   They drive the cloud, they ride the air.

 And, when the planets wend their way
   Along the never-ageing skies,
 ``Revere the Gods`` I hear them say;
   ``The Gods are old, the Gods are wise.``

 Build as man may, Time gnaws and peers
   Through marble fissures, granite rents;
 Only Imagination rears
   Imperishable monuments.

 Let Gaul and Goth pollute the shrine,
   Level the altar, fire the fane:
 There is no razing the Divine;
   The Gods return, the Gods remain.


XXXVIII

 Christ is arisen. The place wherein
   They laid Him shows but cerements furled,
 And belfry answers belfry`s din
   To ring the tidings round the world.

 Grave Hierarchs come, an endless band,
   In jewelled mitre, cope embossed,
 Who bear Rome`s will to every land
   In all the tongues of Pentecost.

 Majestic, along marble floor,
   Walk Cardinals in blood-red robe,
 Martyrs for Faith and Christ no more,
   Who gaze as though they ruled the globe.

 With halberds bare and doublets slashed,
   Emblems that war will never cease,
 Come martial guardians, unabashed,
   And march afront the Prince of Peace.

 Then, in his gestatorial Chair
   See Christ`s vicegerent, bland, benign,
 To crowds all prostrate as in prayer
   Lean low, and make the Holy Sign.

 Then trumpets shrill, and organ peals,
   Throughout the mighty marble pile,
 Whileas a myriad concourse kneels
   In dense-packed nave and crowded aisle.

 Hark to the sudden hush! Aloft
   From unseen source in empty dome
 Swells prayerful music silvery-soft,
   Borne from far-off celestial Home.

 Then, when the solemn rite is done,
   The worshippers stream out to where
 Dance fountains glittering in the sun,
   While expectation fills the air.

 Now on high balcony He stands,
   And-save for the Colonna curse,-
 Blesses with high-uplifted hands
   The City and the Universe.

 Christ is arisen! But scarce as when,
   On the third day of death and gloom,
 Came ever-loving Magdalen
   With tears and spices to His tomb.


XXXIX

 The Tiber winds its sluggish way
   Through niggard tracts whence Rome`s command
 Once cast the shadow of her sway,
   O`er Asian city, Afric sand.

 Nor even yet doth She resign
   Her sceptre. Still the spell is hers,
 Though she may seem a rifled shrine
   `Mid circumjacent sepulchres.

 One after one, they came, they come,
   Gaul, Goth, Savoy, to work their will;
 She answers, when She most seems dumb,
   ``I wore the Crown, I wear it still.

 ``From Jove I first received the gift,
   I from Jehovah wear it now,
 Nor shall profane invader lift
   The diadem from off my brow.

 ``The Past is mine, and on the Past
   The Future builds; and Time will rear
 The next strong structure on the last,
   Where men behold but shattered tier.

 ``The Teuton hither hies to teach,
   To prove, disprove, to delve and probe.
 Fool! Pedant! Does he think to reach
   The deep foundations of the globe?``

 For me, I am content to tread
   On Sabine dust and Gothic foe.
 Leave me to deepening silent dread
   Of vanished Empire`s afterglow.

 In this Imperial wilderness
   Why rashly babble and explore?
 O, let me know a little less,
   So I may feel a little more!


XL

 For upward of one thousand years,
   Here men and women prayed to Jove,
 With smiles and incense, gifts and tears,
   In secret shrine, or civic grove;

 And, when Jove did not seem to heed,
   Sought Juno`s mediatorial power,
 Or begged fair Venus intercede
   And melt him in his amorous hour.

 Sages invoked Minerva`s might;
   The Poet, ere he struck the lyre,
 Prayed to the God of Song and Light
   To touch the strings with hallowed fire.

 With flaming herbs were altars smoked
   Sprinkled with blood and perfumed must,
 And gods and goddesses invoked
   To second love or sanction lust.

 And did they hear and heed the prayer,
   Or, through that long Olympian reign,
 Were they divinities of air
   Begot of man`s fantastic brain?

 In Roman halls their statues still
   Serenely stand, but no one now
 Ascends the Capitolian Hill,
   To render thanks, or urge the vow.

 Through now long centuries hath Rome
   Throned other God, preached other Creed,
 That here still have their central home,
   And feed man`s hope, content his need.

 Against these, too, will Time prevail?
   No! Let whatever gestates, be,
 Secure will last the tender tale
   From Bethlehem to Calvary.

 Throughout this world of pain and loss,
   Man ne`er will cease to bend his knee
 To Crown of Thorns, to Spear, to Cross,
   And Doorway of Humility.


XLI

 If Reason be the sole safe guide
   In man implanted from above,
 Why crave we for one only face,
   Why consecrate the name of Love?

 Faces there are no whit less fair,
   Yet ruddier lip, more radiant eye,
 Same rippling smile, same auburn hair,
   But not for us. Say, Reason, why.

 Why bound our hearts when April pied
   Comes singing, or when hawthorn blows?
 Doth logic in the lily hide,
   And where`s the reason in the rose?

 Why weld our keels and launch our ships,
   If Reason urge some wiser part,
 Kiss England`s Flag with dying lips
   And fold its glories to the heart?

 In this gross world we touch and see,
   If Reason be no trusty guide,
 For world unseen why should it be
   The sole explorer justified?

 The homing swallow knows its nest,
   Sure curves the comet to its goal,
 Instinct leads Autumn to its rest,
   And why not Faith the homing soul?

 Is Reason so aloof, aloft,
   It doth not `gainst itself rebel,
 And are not Reason`s reasonings oft
   By Reason proved unreasonable?

 He is perplexed no more, who prays,
   ``Hail, Mary Mother, full of grace!``
 O drag me from Doubt`s endless maze,
   And let me see my Loved One`s face!


XLII

 ``Upon this rock!`` Yet even here
   Where Christian God ousts Pagan wraith,
 Rebellious Reason whets its spear,
   And smites upon the shield of Faith.

 On sacred mount, down seven-hilled slopes,
   Fearless it faces foe and friend,
 Saying to man`s immortal hopes,
   ``Whatso began, perforce must end.``

 Not men alone, but gods too, die;
   Fanes are, like hearths, left bare and lone;
 This earth will into fragments fly,
   And Heaven itself be overthrown.

 Why then should Man immortal be?
   He is but fleeting form, to fade,
 Like momentary cloud, or sea
   Of waves dispersed as soon as made.

 Yet if `tis Force, not Form, survives,
   Meseems therein that one may find
 Some comfort for distressful lives;
   For, if Force ends not, why should Mind?

 Is Doubt more forceful than Belief?
   The doctor`s cap than friar`s cowl?
 O ripeness of the falling leaf!
   O wisdom of the moping owl!

 Man`s Mind will ever stand apart
   From Science, save this have for goal
 The evolution of the heart,
   And sure survival of the Soul.


XLIII

 The Umbilicum lonely stands
   Where once rose porch and vanished dome;
 But he discerns who understands
   That every road may lead to Rome.

 Enthroned in Peter`s peaceful Chair,
   The spiritual Caesar sways
 A wider Realm of earth and air
   Than trembled at Octavian`s gaze.

 His universal arms embrace
   The saint, the sinner, and the sage,
 And proffer refuge, comfort, grace
   To tribulation`s pilgrimage.

 Here scientific searchers find
   Precursors for two thousand years,
 Who in a drouthy world divined
   Fresh springs for human doubts and fears.

 Here fair chaste Agnes veils her face
   From prowlers of the sensual den,
 And pity, pardon, and embrace
   Await repentant Magdalen.

 Princess and peasant-mother wend
   To self-same altar, self-same shrine,
 And Cardinal and Patriarch bend
   Where lepers kneel, and beggars whine.

 And is there then, in my distress,
   No road, no gate, no shrine, for me?
 The answer comes, ``Yes, surely, yes!
   The Doorway of Humility.``

 O rival Faiths! O clamorous Creeds!
   Would you but hush your strife in prayer,
 And raise one Temple for our needs,
   Then, then, we all might worship there.

 But dogma new with dogma old
   Clashes to soothe the spirit`s grief,
 And offer to the unconsoled
   Polyglot Babel of Belief!


XLIV

 The billows roll, and rise, and break,
   Around me; fixedly shine the stars
 In clear dome overhead, and take
   Their course, unheeding earthly jars.

 Yet if one`s upward gaze could be
   But stationed where the planets are,
 The star were restless as the sea,
   The sea be tranquil as the star.

 Hollowed like cradle, then like grave,
   Now smoothly curved, now shapeless spray,
 Withal the undirected wave
   Forms, and reforms, and knows its way.

 Then, waters, bear me on where He,
   Ere death absolved at Christian font,
 Removed Rome`s menaced majesty
   Eastward beyond the Hellespont.

 Foreseeing not what Fate concealed,
   But Time`s caprice would there beget,
 That Cross would unto Crescent yield,
   Caesar and Christ to Mahomet.

 Is it then man`s predestined state
   To search for, ne`er to find, the Light?
 Arise, my Star, illuminate
   These empty spaces of the Night!


XLV

 Last night I heard the cuckoo call
   Among the moist green glades of home,
 And in the Chase around the Hall
   Saw the May hawthorn flower and foam.

 Deep in the wood where primrose stars
   Paled before bluebell`s dazzling reign,
 The nightingale`s sad sobbing bars
   Rebuked the merle`s too joyful strain.

 The kine streamed forth from stall and byre,
   The foal frisked round its mother staid,
 The meads, by sunshine warmed, took fire,
   And lambs in pasture, bleating, played.

 The uncurbed rivulets raced to where
   The statelier river curled and wound,
 And trout, of human step aware,
   Shot through the wave without a sound.

 Adown the village street, as clear
   As in one`s wakeful mid-day hours,
 Beheld I Monica drawing near,
   Her vestal lap one crib of flowers.

 Lending no look to me, she passed
   By the stone path, as oft before,
 Between old mounds Spring newly grassed,
   And entered through the Little Door.

 Led by her feet, I hastened on,
   But, ere my feverish steps could get
 To the low porch, lo! Morning shone
   On Moslem dome and minaret!


CONSTANTINOPLE

XLVI

 Now Vesper brings the sunset hour,
   And, where crusading Knighthood trod,
 Muezzin from his minaret tower
   Proclaims, ``There is no God but God!``

 Male God who shares his godhead with
   No Virgin Mother`s sacred tear,
 But finds on earth congenial kith
   In wielders of the sword and spear:

 Male God who on male lust bestows
   The ruddy lip, the rounded limb,
 And promises, at battle`s close,
   Houri, not saint nor seraphim.

 Swift through the doubly-guarded stream,
   Shoots the caïque `neath oarsmen brisk,
 While from its cushioned cradle gleam
   The eyes of yashmaked odalisque.

 Unchanged adown the changing years,
   Here where the Judas blossoms blaze,
 Against Sophia`s marble piers
   The scowling Muslim lean and gaze;

 And still at sunset`s solemn hour,
   Where Christ`s devout Crusader trod,
 Defiant from the minaret`s tower
   Proclaim, ``There is no God but God!``


XLVII

 Three rival Rituals. One revered
   In that loved English hamlet where,
 With flowers in Vicarage garden reared,
   She decks the altar set for prayer:

 Another, where majestic Rome,
   With fearless Faith and flag unfurled
 `Gainst Doubt`s ephemeral wave and foam,
   Demands obedience from the world.

 The third, where now I stand, and where
   Two hoary Continents have met,
 And Islam guards from taint and tare
   Monistic Creed of Mahomet.

 Yet older than all three, but banned
   To suffer still the exile`s doom
 From shrine where Turkish sentries stand,
   And Christians wrangle round Christ`s tomb.

 Where then find Creed, divine or dead,
   All may embrace, and none contemn?-
 Remember Who it was that said,
   ``Not here, nor at Jerusalem!``


ATHENS


XLVIII

 To Acrocorinth`s brow I climb,
   And, lulled in retrospective bliss,
 Descry, as through the mists of time,
   Faintly the far Acropolis.

 Below me, rivers, mountains, vales,
   Wide stretch of ancient Hellas lies:
 Symbol of Song that never fails,
   Parnassus communes with the skies.

 I linger, dream-bound by the Past,
   Till sundown joins time`s deep abyss,
 Then skirt, through shadows moonlight-cast,
   Lone strand of sailless Salamis,

 Until Eleusis gleams through dawn,
   Where, though a suppliant soul I come,
 The veil remains still unwithdrawn,
   And all the Oracles are dumb.

 So onward to the clear white Light,
   Where, though the worshippers be gone,
 Abides on unmysterious height
   The calm unquestioning Parthenon.

 Find I, now there I stand at last,
   That naked Beauty, undraped Truth,
 Can satisfy our yearnings vast,
   The doubts of age, the dreams of youth;

 That, while we ask, in futile strife,
   From altar, tripod, fount, or well,
 Form is the secret soul of life,
   And Art the only Oracle;

 That Hera and Athena, linked
   With Aphrodite, hush distress,
 And, in their several gifts distinct,
   Withal are Triune Goddesses?

 That mortal wiser then was He
   Who gave the prize to Beauty`s smile,
 Divides his gifts among the Three,
   And thuswise baffles Discord`s guile?

 But who is wise? The nobler twain,
   Who the restraining girdle wear,
 Contend too often all in vain
   With sinuous curve and frolic hair.

 Just as one sees in marble, still,
   Pan o`er Apollo`s shoulder lean,
 Suggesting to the poet`s quill
   The sensual note, the hint obscene.

 Doth then the pure white Light grow dim,
   And must it be for ever thus?
 Listen! I hear a far-off Hymn,
Veni, Creator, Spiritus!


XLIX

 The harvest of Hymettus drips
   As sweet as when the Attic bees
 Swarmed round the honey-laden lips
   Of heavenly-human Sophocles.

 The olives are as green in grove
   As in the days the poets bless,
 When Pallas with Poseidon strove
   To be the City`s Patroness.

 The wine-hued main, white marble frieze,
   Dome of blue ether over all,
 One still beholds, but nowhere sees
   Panathenaic Festival.

 O`erhead, no Zeus or frowns or nods,
   Olympus none in air or skies;
 Below, a sepulchre of Gods,
   And tombs of dead Divinities.

 Yet, are they dead? Still stricken blind,
   Tiresiaslike, are they that see,
 With bold uncompromising mind,
   Wisdom in utter nudity;

 Experiencing a kindred fate
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