The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Volume 1

     Vanished like the wind that blows,
     Whither shall we seek their trace
         On earth's face?
     The gigantic wheel of fate,
     Crushing all things soon or late,
        Now a race,
     Now a single life o'erruns,
     Now a universe of suns,
         Now a rose.

     Uplift the ponderous, golden mask of death,
       And let the sun shine on him as it did
     How many thousand years agone!  Beneath
       This worm-defying, uncorrupted lid,
     Behold the young, heroic face, round-eyed,
     Of one who in his full-flowered manhood died;
       Of nobler frame than creatures of to-day,
     Swathed in fine linen cerecloths fold on fold,
     With carven weapons wrought of bronze and gold,
       Accoutred like a warrior for the fray.

     We gaze in awe at these huge-modeled limbs,
       Shrunk in death's narrow house, but hinting yet
     Their ancient majesty; these sightless rims
       Whose living eyes the eyes of Helen met;
     The speechless lips that ah! what tales might tell
     Of earth's morning-tide when gods did dwell
       Amidst a generous-fashioned, god-like race,
     Who dwarf our puny semblance, and who won
     The secret soul of Beauty for their own,
       While all our art but crudely apes their grace.

     We gather all the precious relics up,
       The golden buttons chased with wondrous craft,
     The sculptured trinkets and the crystal cup,
       The sheathed, bronze sword, the knife with brazen haft.
     Fain would we wrest with curious eyes from these
     Unnumbered long-forgotten histories,
       The deeds heroic of this mighty man,
     On whom once more the living daylight beams,
     To shame our littleness, to mock our dreams,
       And the abyss of centuries to span.

     Yet could we rouse him from his blind repose,
       How might we meet his searching questionings,
     Concerning all the follies, wrongs, and woes,
       Since his great day whom men call King of Kings,
     Victorious Agamemnon?  How might we
     Those large, clear eyes confront, which scornfully
       Would view us as a poor, degenerate race,
     Base-souled and mean-proportioned?  What reply
     Give to the beauty-loving Greek's heart-cry,
       Seeking his ancient gods in vacant space?

     What should he find within a world grown cold,
       Save doubt and trouble?  To his sunny creed
       A thousand gloomy, warring sects succeed.
     How of the Prince of Peace might he be told,
       When over half the world the war-cloud lowers?
       How would he mock these faltering hopes of ours,
     Who knows the secret now of death and fate!
       Humbly we gaze on the colossal frame,
       And mutely we accept the mortal shame,
     Of men degraded from a high estate.

                     March 13, 1881.

     As one who feels the breathless nightmare grip
     His heart-strings, and through visioned horrors fares,
     Now on a thin-ledged chasm's rock-crumbling lip,
     Now on a tottering pinnacle that dare
     The front of heaven, while always unawares
     Weird monsters start above, around, beneath,
     Each glaring from some uglier mask of death,

     So the White Czar imperial progress made
     Through terror-haunted days.  A shock, a cry
     Whose echoes ring the globe—the spectre's laid.
     Hurled o'er the abyss, see the crowned martyr lie
     Resting in peace—fear, change, and death gone by.
     Fit end for nightmare—mist of blood and tears,
     Red climax to the slow, abortive years.

     The world draws breath—one long, deep-shuddering sigh,
     At that which dullest brain prefigured clear
     As swift-sure bolt from thunder-threatening sky.
     How heaven-anointed humblest lots appear
     Beside his glittering eminence of fear;
     His spiked crown, sackcloth purple, poisoned cates,
     His golden palace honey-combed with hates.

     Well is it done!  A most heroic plan,
     Which after myriad plots succeeds at last
     In robbing of his life this poor old man,
     Whose sole offense—his birthright—has but passed
     To fresher blood, with younger strength recast.
     What men are these, who, clamoring to be free,
     Would bestialize the world to what they be?

     Whose sons are they who made the snow-wreathed head
     Their frenzy's target?  In their Russian veins,
     What alien current urged on to smite him dead,
     Whose word had loosed a million Russian chains?
     What brutes were they for whom such speechless pains,
     So royally endured, no human thrill
     Awoke, in hearts drunk with the lust to kill?

     Not brutes!  No tiger of the wilderness,
     No jackal of the jungle, bears such brand
     As man's black heart, who shrinks not to confess
     The desperate deed of his deliberate hand.
     Our kind, our kin, have done this thing.  We stand
     Bowed earthward, red with shame, to see such wrong
     Prorogue Love's cause and Truth's—God knows how long!

           "I would not have," he said,
     "Tears, nor the black pall, nor the wormy grave,
     Grief's hideous panoply I would not have
           Round me when I am dead.

           "Music and flowers and light,
     And choric dances to guitar and flute,
     Be these around me when my lips are mute,
           Mine eyes are sealed from sight.

           "So let me lie one day,
     One long, eternal day, in sunshine bathed,
     In cerements of silken tissue swathed,
           Smothered 'neath flowers of May.

           "One perfect day of peace,
     Or ere clean flame consume my fleshly veil,
     My life—a gilded vapor—shall exhale,
           Brief as a sigh—and cease.

           "But ere the torch be laid
     To my unshrinking limbs by some true hand,
     Athwart the orange-fragrant laughing land,
           Bring many a dark-eyed maid

           "From the bright, sea-kissed town;
     My beautiful, beloved enemies,
     Gemmed as the dew, voluptuous as the breeze,
           Each in her festal gown.

           "All those through whom I learned
     The sweet of folly and the pains of love,
     My Rose, my Star, my Comforter, my Dove,
           For whom, poor moth, I burned.

           "Loves of a day, and hour,
     Or passions (vowed eternal) of a year,
     Though each be strange to each, to me all dear
           As to the bee the flower.

           "Around me they shall move
     In languid contra dances, and shall shed
     Their smiling eyebeams as I were not dead,
           But quick to flash back love.

           "Something not alien quite
     To tender ruth, perchance their breast shall fill,
     Seeing him that was so mobile grown so still,
           The fiery-veined so white.

           "And when the dance is o'er,
     The pinched guitar, the smitten tambourine,
     Have ceased their rhythmic beat,—oh, friends of mine,
           On my rich bier, then pour

           "The garlands that ye wear,
     The happy rose that on your bosom breathes,
     The fresh-culled clusters and the dewy wreaths
           That crown your fragrant hair.

           "Though blind, I still shall see,
     Though dead, shall feel your presence and shall know,
     I who was beauty's life-long slave, shall so
           Win her in death to me.

           "Thanks, sisters, and farewell!
     Back to your joys.  My brother shall make room
     For my tried sword upon the high-piled bloom,
           And fire the pinnacle.

           "My soul, pure flame, shall leap
     To meet its parent essence once again
     My body dust and ashes shall remain,
           Tired heart and brain shall sleep.

           "Life has one gate alone,
     Obscure, beset with peril and fierce pain.
     Large death has many portals to his fane,
           Why choose we to make moan?

           "Why dwell with worms and clay
     When we may soar through air on wings of flame,
     Dissolve to small, white dust our perfect frame,
           And never know decay?

           "A brother's pious hand
     The pure, fire-winnowed ashes shall inurn,
     And lay them in the orange grove where burn
           Globed suns that scent the land.

           "The leaf shall be more green,
     Even for my dust—more snowy-soft the flower,
     More juicy-sweet the fruit's live pulp—the bower
           Richer that I have been.

           "For I would not," he said,
     "Tears and the black pall and the wormy grave,
     Grief's hideous panoply I would not have
           Round me when I am dead."

     We sat at twilight nigh the sea,
       The fog hung gray and weird.
     Through the thick film uncannily
       The broken moon appeared.

     We heard the billows crack and plunge,
       We saw nor waves nor ships.
     Earth sucked the vapors like a sponge,
       The salt spray wet our lips.

     Closer the woof of white mist drew,
       Before, behind, beside.
     How could that phantom moon break through,
       Above that shrouded tide?

     The roaring waters filled the ear,
       A white blank foiled the sight.
     Close-gathering shadows near, more near,
       Brought the blind, awful night.

     O friends who passed unseen, unknown!
       O dashing, troubled sea!
     Still stand we on a rock alone,
     Walled round by mystery.

     Down the goldenest of streams,
             Tide of dreams,
     The fair cradled man-child drifts;
     Sways with cadenced motion slow,
             To and fro,
     As the mother-foot poised lightly, falls and lifts.

     He, the firstling,—he, the light
             Of her sight,—
     He, the breathing pledge of love,
     'Neath the holy passion lies,
             Of her eyes,—
     Smiles to feel the warm, life-giving ray above.

     She believes that in his vision,
             Skies elysian
     O'er an angel-people shine.
     Back to gardens of delight,
             Taking flight,
     His auroral spirit basks in dreams divine.

     But she smiles through anxious tears;
             Unborn years
     Pressing forward, she perceives.
     Shadowy muffled shapes, they come
             Deaf and dumb,
     Bringing what? dry chaff and tares, or full-eared sheaves?

     What for him shall she invoke?
             Shall the oak
     Bind the man's triumphant brow?
     Shall his daring foot alight
             On the height?
     Shall he dwell amidst the humble and the low?

     Through what tears and sweat and pain,
             Must he gain
     Fruitage from the tree of life?
     Shall it yield him bitter flavor?
             Shall its savor
     Be as manna midst the turmoil and the strife?

     In his cradle slept and smiled
             Thus the child
     Who as Prince of Peace was hailed.
     Thus anigh the mother breast,
             Lulled to rest,
     Child-Napoleon down the lilied river sailed.

     Crowned or crucified—the same
             Glows the flame
     Of her deathless love divine.
     Still the blessed mother stands,
             In all lands,
     As she watched beside thy cradle and by mine.

     Whatso gifts the years bestow,
             Still men know,
     While she breathes, lives one who sees
     (Stand they pure or sin-defiled)
             But the child
     Whom she crooned to sleep and rocked upon her knee.

     Light silken curtain, colorless and soft,
     Dreamlike before me floating! what abides
             Behind thy pearly veil's
             Opaque, mysterious woof?

     Where sleek red kine, and dappled, crunch day-long
     Thick, luscious blades and purple clover-heads,
             Nigh me I still can mark
             Cool fields of beaded grass.

     No more; for on the rim of the globed world
     I seem to stand and stare at nothingness.
             But songs of unseen birds
             And tranquil roll of waves

     Bring sweet assurance of continuous life
     Beyond this silvery cloud.  Fantastic dreams,
             Of tissue subtler still
             Than the wreathed fog, arise,

     And cheat my brain with airy vanishings
     And mystic glories of the world beyond.
             A whole enchanted town
             Thy baffling folds conceal—

     An Orient town, with slender-steepled mosques,
     Turret from turret springing, dome from dome,
             Fretted with burning stones,
             And trellised with red gold.

     Through spacious streets, where running waters flow,
     Sun-screened by fruit-trees and the broad-leaved palm,
             Past the gay-decked bazaars,
             Walk turbaned, dark-eyed men.

     Hark! you can hear the many murmuring tongues,
     While loud the merchants vaunt their gorgeous wares.
             The sultry air is spiced
             With fragrance of rich gums,

     And through the lattice high in yon dead wall,
     See where, unveiled, an arch, young, dimpled face,
             Flushed like a musky peach,
             Peers down upon the mart!

     From her dark, ringleted and bird-poised head
     She hath cast back the milk-white silken veil:
             'Midst the blank blackness there
             She blossoms like a rose.

     Beckons she not with those bright, full-orbed eyes,
     And open arms that like twin moonbeams gleam?
             Behold her smile on me
             With honeyed, scarlet lips!

     Divine Scheherazade! I am thine.
     I come!  I come!—Hark! from some far-off mosque
             The shrill muezzin calls
             The hour of silent prayer,

     And from the lattice he hath scared my love.
     The lattice vanisheth itself—the street,
             The mart, the Orient town;
             Only through still, soft air

     That cry is yet prolonged.  I wake to hear
     The distant fog-horn peal: before mine eyes
             Stands the white wall of mist,
             Blending with vaporous skies.

     Elusive gossamer, impervious
     Even to the mighty sun-god's keen red shafts!
             With what a jealous art
             Thy secret thou dost guard!

     Well do I know deep in thine inmost folds,
     Within an opal hollow, there abides
             The lady of the mist,
             The Undine of the air—

     A slender, winged, ethereal, lily form,
     Dove-eyed, with fair, free-floating, pearl-wreathed hair,
             In waving raiment swathed
             Of changing, irised hues.

     Where her feet, rosy as a shell, have grazed
     The freshened grass, a richer emerald glows:
             Into each flower-cup
             Her cool dews she distills.

     She knows the tops of jagged mountain-peaks,
     She knows the green soft hollows of their sides,
             And unafraid she floats
             O'er the vast-circled seas.

     She loves to bask within the moon's wan beams,
     Lying, night-long upon the moist, dark earth,
             And leave her seeded pearls
             With morning on the grass.

     Ah! that athwart these dim, gray outer courts
     Of her fantastic palace I might pass,
             And reach the inmost shrine
             Of her chaste solitude,

     And feel her cool and dewy fingers press
     My mortal-fevered brow, while in my heart
             She poured with tender love
             Her healing Lethe-balm!

     See! the close curtain moves, the spell dissolves!
     Slowly it lifts: the dazzling sunshine streams
             Upon a newborn world
             And laughing summer seas.

     Swift, snowy-breasted sandbirds twittering glance
     Through crystal air.  On the horizon's marge,
             Like a huge purple wraith,
             The dusky fog retreats.

     "Oh brew me a potion strong and good!
         One golden drop in his wine
     Shall charm his sense and fire his blood,
         And  bend his will to  mine."

     Poor child of passion! ask of me
         Elixir of death or sleep,
     Or Lethe's stream; but love is free,
         And woman must wait and weep.

                   Venus.

     Frosty lies the winter-landscape,
       In the twilight golden-green.
     Down the Park's deserted alleys,
       Naked elms stand stark and lean.

     Dumb the murmur of the fountain,
       Birds have flown from lawn and hill.
     But while yonder star's ascendant,
       Love triumphal reigneth still.

     See the keen flame throb and tremble,
       Brightening in the darkening night,
     Breathing like a thing of passion,
       In the sky's smooth chrysolite.

     Not beneath the moon, oh lover,
       Thou shalt gain thy heart's desire.
     Speak to-night!  The gods are with thee
       Burning with a kindred fire.

        What art thou doing here, O Imagination?  Go
        away I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didst
        come, for I want thee not.  But thou art come
        according to thy old fashion.  I am not angry
        with thee—only go away.
                                 —Marcus Antoninus

     Lilac hazes veil the skies.
         Languid sighs
     Breathes the mild, caressing air.
     Pink as coral's branching sprays,
         Orchard ways
     With the blossomed peach are fair.

     Sunshine, cordial as a kiss,
         Poureth bliss
     In this craving soul of mine,
     And my heart her flower-cup
         Lifteth up,
     Thirsting for the draught divine.

     Swift the liquid golden flame
         Through my frame
     Sets my throbbing veins afire.
     Bright, alluring dreams arise,
         Brim mine eyes
     With the tears of strong desire.

     All familiar scenes anear
         Disappear—
     Homestead, orchard, field, and wold.
     Moorish spires and turrets fair
         Cleave the air,
     Arabesqued on skies of gold.

     Low, my spirit, this May morn,
         Outward borne,
     Over seas hath taken wing:
     Where the mediaeval town,
         Like a crown,
     Wears the garland of the Spring.

     Light and sound and odors sweet
         Fill the street;
     Gypsy girls are selling flowers.
     Lean hidalgos turn aside,
         Amorous-eyed,
     'Neath the grim cathedral towers.

     Oh, to be in Spain to-day,
         Where the May
     Recks no whit of good or evil,
     Love and only love breathes she!
         Oh, to be
     'Midst the olive-rows of Seville!

     Or on such a day to glide
         With the tide
     Of the berylline lagoon,
     Through the streets that mirror heaven,
         Crystal paven,
     In the warm Venetian noon.

     At the prow the gondolier
        May not hear,
     May not see our furtive kiss;
     But he lends with cadenced strain
         The refrain
     To our ripe and silent bliss.

     Golden shadows, silver light,
         Burnish bright
     Air and water, domes and skies;
     As in some ambrosial dream,
         On the stream
     Floats our bark in magic wise.

     Oh, to float day long just so!
         Naught to know
     Of the trouble, toil, and fret!
     This is love, and this is May:
         Yesterday
     And to-morrow to forget!

     Whither hast thou, Fancy free,
         Guided me,
     Wild Bohemian sister dear?
     All thy gypsy soul is stirred
         Since yon bird
     Warbled that the Spring was here.

     Tempt no more!  I may not follow,
         Like the swallow,
     Gayly on the track of Spring.
     Bounden by an iron fate,
         I must wait,
     Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.

     Night, and beneath star-blazoned summer skies
       Behold the Spirit of the musky South,
     A creole with still-burning, languid eyes,
       Voluptuous limbs and incense-breathing mouth:
             Swathed in spun gauze is she,
     From fibres of her own anana tree.

     Within these sumptuous woods she lies at ease,
       By rich night-breezes, dewy cool, caressed:
     'Twixt cypresses and slim palmetto trees,
       Like to the golden oriole's hanging nest,
             Her airy hammock swings,
     And through the dark her mocking-bird yet sings.

     How beautiful she is!  A tulip-wreath
       Twines round her shadowy, free-floating hair:
     Young, weary, passionate, and sad as death,
       Dark visions haunt for her the vacant air,
             While movelessly she lies
     With lithe, lax, folded hands and heavy eyes.

     Full well knows she how wide and fair extend
       Her groves bright-flowered, her tangled everglades,
     Majestic streams that indolently wend
       Through lush savanna or dense forest shades,
             Where the brown buzzard flies
     To broad bayou 'neath hazy-golden skies.

     Hers is the savage splendor of the swamp,
       With pomp of scarlet and of purple bloom,
     Where blow warm, furtive breezes faint and damp,
       Strange insects whir, and stalking bitterns boom—
             Where from stale waters dead
     Oft looms the great-jawed alligator's head.

     Her wealth, her beauty, and the blight on these,—
       Of all she is aware: luxuriant woods,
     Fresh, living, sunlit, in her dream she sees;
       And ever midst those verdant solitudes
             The soldier's wooden cross,
     O'ergrown by creeping tendrils and rank moss.

     Was her a dream of empire? was it sin?
       And is it well that all was borne in vain?
     She knows no more than one who slow doth win,
       After fierce fever, conscious life again,
             Too tired, too weak, too sad,
     By the new light to be stirred or glad.

     From rich sea-islands fringing her green shore,
       From broad plantations where swart freemen bend
     Bronzed backs in willing labor, from her store
       Of golden fruit, from stream, from town, ascend
             Life-currents of pure health:
     Her aims shall be subserved with boundless wealth.

     Yet now how listless and how still she lies,
       Like some half-savage, dusky Indian queen,
     Rocked in her hammock 'neath her native skies,
       With the pathetic, passive, broken mien
             Of one who, sorely proved,
     Great-souled, hath suffered much and much hath loved!

     But look! along the wide-branched, dewy glade
       Glimmers the dawn: the light palmetto-trees
     And cypresses reissue from the shade,
       And SHE hath wakened.  Through clear air she sees
             The pledge, the brightening ray,
     And leaps from dreams to hail the coming day.

                 I.

     Over the lamp-lit street,
     Trodden by hurrying feet,
     Where mostly pulse and beat
         Life's throbbing veins,
     See where the April star,
     Blue-bright as sapphires are,
     Hangs in deep heavens far,
         Waxes and wanes.

     Strangely alive it seems,
     Darting keen, dazzling gleams,
     Veiling anon its beams,
         Large, clear, and pure.
     In the broad western sky
     No orb may shine anigh,
     No lesser radiancy
         May there endure.

     Spring airs are blowing sweet:
     Low in the dusky street
     Star-beams and eye-beams meet.
         Rapt in his dreams,
     All through the crowded mart
     Poet with swift-stirred heart,
     Passing beneath, must start,
         Thrilled by those gleams.

     Naught doth he note anear,
     Fain through Night's veil to peer,
     Reach that resplendent sphere,
         Reading her sign.
     Where point those sharp, thin rays,
     Guiding his weary maze,
     Blesseth she or betrays,
         Who may divine?

     "Guard me, celestial light,
     Lofty, serenely bright:
     Lead my halt feet aright,"
         Prayerful he speaks.
     "For a new ray hath shone
     Over my spirit lone.
     Be this new soul the one
         whom my soul seeks."

                      II.

     Beside her casement oped the maiden sits,
       Where the mild evening spirit of the Spring
     Gently between the city's homesteads flits
       To kiss her brows, and floats on languid wing,
       Vague longings in her breast awakening.
     While her heart trembles 'neath those dim, deep skies,
     As the quick sea that 'neath the globed moon lies.

     Where her eyes rest the full-orbed evening star
       Burns with white flame: it beckons, shrinks, dilates.
     She, dazzled by that shining world afar,
       May not withdraw her gaze: breathless she waits.
       Some promised joy from Heaven's very gates
     Unto her soul seems proffered.  When shall be
     The bright fulfilment of that star's decree?

     Nor glad nor sad is she: she doth not know
       That through the city's throng one threads his way,
     Thrilled likewise by that planet's mystic glow,
       And hastes to seek her.  What sweet change shall sway
       Her spirit at his coming?  What new ray
     Upon his shadowy life from her shall fall?
     The silent star burns on, and knoweth all.

     Ten o'clock: the broken moon
       Hangs not yet a half hour high,
         Yellow as a shield of brass,
     In the dewy air of June,
       Poised between the vaulted sky
         And the ocean's liquid glass.

     Earth lies in the shadow still;
       Low black bushes, trees, and lawn
         Night's ambrosial dews absorb;
     Through the foliage creeps a thrill,
       Whispering of yon spectral dawn
         And the hidden climbing orb.

     Higher, higher, gathering light,
       Veiling with a golden gauze
         All the trembling atmosphere,
     See, the rayless disk grows white!
       Hark, the glittering billows pause!

         Faint, far sounds possess the ear.

     Elves on such a night as this
       Spin their rings upon the grass;
         On the beach the water-fay
     Greets her lover with a kiss;
       Through the air swift spirits pass,
         Laugh, caress, and float away.

     Shut thy lids and thou shalt see
       Angel faces wreathed with light,
         Mystic forms long vanished hence.
     Ah, too fine, too rare, they be
       For the grosser mortal sight,
         And they foil our waking sense.

     Yet we feel them floating near,
       Know that we are not alone,
         Though our open eyes behold
     Nothing save the moon's bright sphere,
       In the vacant heavens shown,
         And the ocean's path of gold.

     By the impulse of my will,
       By the red flame in my blood,
     By me nerves' electric thrill,
       By the passion of my mood,
     My concentrated desire,
       My undying, desperate love,
     I ignore Fate, I defy her,
       Iron-hearted Death I move.
     When the town lies numb with sleep,
       Here, round-eyed I sit; my breath
     Quickly stirred, my flesh a-creep,
       And I force the gates of death.
     I nor move nor speak—you'd deem
       From my quiet face and hands,
     I were tranced—but in her dream,
       SHE responds, she understands.
     I have power on what is not,
       Or on what has ceased to be,
     From that deep, earth-hollowed spot,
       I can lift her up to me.
     And, or ere I am aware
       Through the closed and curtained door,
     Comes my lady white and fair,
       And embraces me once more.
     Though the clay clings to her gown,
       Yet all heaven is in her eyes;
     Cool, kind fingers press mine eyes,
       To my soul her soul replies.
     But when breaks the common dawn,
       And the city wakes—behold!
     My shy phantom is withdrawn,
       And I shiver lone and cold.
     And I know when she has left,
       She is stronger far than I,
     And more subtly spun her weft,
       Than my human wizardry.
     Though I force her to my will,
       By the red flame in my blood,
     By my nerves' electric thrill,
       By the passion of my mood,
     Yet all day a ghost am I.
       Nerves unstrung, spent will, dull brain.
     I achieve, attain, but die,
       And she claims me hers again.

     Look! the round-cheeked moon floats high,
     In the glowing August sky,
     Quenching all her neighbor stars,
     Save the steady flame of Mars.
     White as silver shines the sea,
     Far-off sails like phantoms be,
     Gliding o'er that lake of light,
     Vanishing in nether night.
     Heavy hangs the tasseled corn,
     Sighing for the cordial morn;
     But the marshy-meadows bare,
     Love this spectral-lighted air,
     Drink the dews and lift their song,
     Chirp of crickets all night long;
     Earth and sea enchanted lie
     'Neath that moon-usurped sky.

     To the faces of our friends
     Unfamiliar traits she lends—
     Quaint, white witch, who looketh down
     With a glamour all her own.
     Hushed are laughter, jest, and speech,
     Mute and heedless each of each,
     In the glory wan we sit,
     Visions vague before us flit;
     Side by side, yet worlds apart,
     Heart becometh strange to heart.

     Slowly in a moved voice, then,
     Ralph, the artist spake again—
     "Does not that weird orb unroll
     Scenes phantasmal to your soul?
     As I gaze  thereon, I swear,
     Peopled grows the vacant air,
     Fables, myths alone are real,
     White-clad sylph-like figures steal
     'Twixt the bushes, o'er the lawn,
     Goddess, nymph, undine, and faun.
     Yonder, see the Willis dance,
     Faces pale with stony glance;
     They are maids who died unwed,
     And they quit their gloomy bed,
     Hungry still for human pleasure,
     Here to trip a moonlit measure.
     Near the shore the mermaids play,
     Floating on the cool, white spray,
     Leaping from the glittering surf
     To the dark and fragrant turf,
     Where the frolic trolls, and elves
     Daintily disport themselves.
     All the shapes by poet's brain,
     Fashioned, live for me again,
     In this spiritual light,
     Less than day, yet more than night.
     What a world! a waking dream,
     All things other than they seem,
     Borrowing a finer grace,
     From yon golden globe in space;
     Touched with wild, romantic glory,
     Foliage fresh and billows hoary,
     Hollows bathed in yellow haze,
     Hills distinct and fields of maize,
     Ancient legends come to mind.
     Who would marvel should he find,
     In the copse or nigh the spring,
     Summer fairies gamboling
     Where the honey-bees do suck,
     Mab and Ariel and Puck?
     Ah! no modern mortal sees
     Creatures delicate as these.
     All the simple faith has gone
     Which their world was builded on.
     Now the moonbeams coldly glance
     On no gardens of romance;
     To prosaic senses dull,
     Baldur's dead, the Beautiful,
     Hark, the cry rings overhead,
     'Universal Pan is dead!'"
     "Requiescant!"  Claude's grave tone
     Thrilled us strangely.  "I am one
     Who would not restore that Past,
     Beauty will immortal last,
     Though the beautiful must die—
     This the ages verify.
     And had Pan deserved the name
     Which his votaries misclaim,
     He were living with us yet.
     I behold, without regret,
     Beauty in new forms recast,
     Truth emerging from the vast,
     Bright and orbed, like yonder sphere,
     Making the obscure air clear.
     He shall be of bards the king,
     Who, in worthy verse, shall sing
     All the conquests of the hour,
     Stealing no fictitious power
     From the classic types outworn,
     But his rhythmic line adorn
     With the marvels of the real.
     He the baseless feud shall heal
     That estrangeth wide apart
     Science from her sister Art.
     Hold! look through this glass for me?
     Artist, tell me what you see?"
     "I!" cried Ralph.  "I see in place
     Of Astarte's silver face,
     Or veiled Isis' radiant robe,
     Nothing but a rugged globe
     Seamed with awful rents and scars.
     And below no longer Mars,
     Fierce, flame-crested god of war,
     But a lurid, flickering star,
     Fashioned like our mother earth,
     Vexed, belike, with death and birth."