Part 17 (2/2)

The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled, And there breathes a low and plaintive sound From each stream and solemn wood around.

In unison with their tone, my breast With a spirit of kindred gloom is opprest, And the sighs burst forth as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile, And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined,-- Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave, And shakes the loose panel and architrave, While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves.

But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy moanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve on my pensive ear, As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear, As coming from crumbling altar stone They are borne on the winds in a dirge-like tone, Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted O'er hopes betrayed and joys departed.

Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint?

As if thou hadst come from the sh.o.r.eless main Of a world submerged to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'er the wide and voiceless solitude.

Dost thou mourn that the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more?

That the tall and waving gra.s.s defiles The well-worn flags of the crowdless aisles?

That the wild fox barks, and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes?

Dost thou mourn, that from sacred desk the word Of life and truth is no longer heard?

That the gentle shepherd, who to pasture bore His flock, has gone, to return no more?

Dost thou mourn for the h.o.a.ry-headed sage Who has sunk to the grave 'neath the weight of age?

For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom?

For the light of youth quenched in the tomb?

For the bridegroom's fall? For the bride's decay?

That pastor and people have pa.s.sed away, And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew?

Or dost thou mourn that the house of G.o.d Has ceased to be a divine abode?

That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the Son of Man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form to the eye of sense, From its resting place has departed hence, And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat where its presence sat?

I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard With a heart responsive thy tones, sweet bird, And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things The blight and the loss--Oh! had I thy wings, From a world of woe to the realms of the blest I would flee away, and would be at rest.

FALL OF SUPERSt.i.tION.

A PRIZE POEM.

The star of Bethlehem rose, and truth and light Burst on the nations that reposed in night, And chased the Stygian shades with rosy smile That spread from Error's home, the land of Nile.

No more with harp and sistrum Music calls To wanton rites within Astarte's halls, The priests forget to mourn their Apis slain, And bear Osiris' ark with pompous train; Gone is Serapis, and Anubis fled, And Neitha's unraised vail shrouds Isis' prostrate head.

Where Jove shook heaven when the red bolt was hurled, Neptune the sea--and Phoebus lit the world; Where fair-haired naiads held each silver flood, A fawn each field--a dryad every wood-- The myriad G.o.ds have fled, and G.o.d alone Above their ruined fanes has reared his throne.[A]

No more the augur stands in snowy shroud To watch each flitting wing and rolling cloud, Nor Superst.i.tion in dim twilight weaves Her wizard song among Dodona's leaves; Phoebus is dumb, and votaries crowd no more The Delphian mountain and the Delian sh.o.r.e, And lone and still the Lybian Ammon stands, His utterance stifled by the desert sands.

No more in Cnydian bower, or Cyprian grove The golden censers flame with gifts to Love; The pale-eyed Vestal bends no more and prays Where the eternal fire sends up its blaze; Cybele hears no more the cymbal's sound, The Lares s.h.i.+ver the fireless hearthstone round; And shatter'd shrine and altar lie o'erthrown, Inscriptionless, save where Oblivion lone Has dimly traced his name upon the mouldering stone.

Medina's sceptre is despoiled of might-- Once stretched o'er realms that bowed in pale affright; The Moon that rose, as waved the scimetar Where sunk the Cross amid the storm of war, Now pale and dim, is hastening to its wane, The sword is broke that spread the Koran's reign, And soon will minaret and swelling dome Fall, like the fanes of Egypt, Greece, and Rome.

On other lands has dawned immortal day, And Superst.i.tion's clouds have rolled away; O'er Gallia's mounts and on Iona's sh.o.r.e The Runic altars roll their smoke no more; Fled is the Druid from his ancient oak, His harp is mute--his magic circle broke; And Desolation mopes in Odin's cells Where spirit-voices called to join the feast of sh.e.l.ls.

O'er Indian plains and ocean-girdled isles With brow of beauty Truth serenely smiles; The nations bow, as light is shed abroad, And break their idols for the living G.o.d.

Where purple streams from human victims run And votive flesh hangs quivering in the sun, Quenched are the pyres, as s.h.i.+nes salvation's star-- Grim Juggernaut is trembling on his car And cries less frequent come from Ganges' waves Where infant forms sink into watery graves.

Where heathen prayers flamed by the cocoa tree They supplicate the Christians' Deity And chant in living aisles the vesper hymn Where giant G.o.d-trees rear their temples dim.

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