Classic Poem

Rising straightly, extend in their symmetrical,
Clean-cut lines these immense columns; mysteriously
Loom they, giantlike, huge, through the dim atmosphere,
Like some silent Titanic host

Plotting war in the night 'gainst the Invisible:
Arches noiselessly leap forth from the capitals,
Swiftly soar o'er the void, then to each other lean,
Poised in dizzy embrace on high.

So 'mid discord of men, 'mid the barbarian
Tumults, rose unto God sighs, supplications, tears,
Shed by downtrodden men, yearning in solitude
To unite themselves unto Him.

No God ask I from you, arches aerial,
Marble columns! I watch trembling to hear a light
Footfall, known unto me, which in its coming the
Solemn echoes awakeneth.

It is Lydia — she turns: lo, as she turns, her hair
Glimmers faint thro' the gloom, and for an instant the
Pale, sweet countenance smiles out from the veil of black,
Smiles out radiant with love to me.

He too, Dante of old, once in the dubious
Twilight stood of a vast Gothic cathedral, and
Sought with fear after God, finding Him in the pale,
Pearl-like gleam of a woman's face.

Clear beneath the white veil glimmered the maiden's brow;
All transfigured she shone, rapt in an ecstasy;
Incense drifted in clouds o'er her, and through the dim
Air rose passionate litanies;

Rose with murmured appeal, soft as a turtle-dove's
Low-breathed cooing they rose joyously heavenward,
Changing soon to the shrill wail of despairing throngs,
Who stretch hands of prayer forth to God.

O'er them weirdly the deep organ from arch to arch
Sobbed and sighed thro' the vast gloom: in the marble vaults
Far beneath them the dead bones of their ancestors
Seemed to whisper in sympathy.

But from Fiesole's height famous in history,
'Mid fair legends of saints, rosily through the panes
Gazed Apollo: the wax candles around the high
Altar paled and grew tremulous.

Dante saw 'mid the hymns chanted by angels his
Tuscan virgin ascend, saw in a vision her
Form transfigured, and heard how the abyss of Hell
Bellowed lurid beneath his feet.

Yet no demons see I, no, nor angelical
Light; I see but a flash, brilliant as lightning, that
Trembles through the damp air: twilight enwraps the soul
With grey mists and with weariness.

Lo, I bid thee farewell, dreadful Semitic God!
O'er thy mysteries Death holdeth dominion.
Inaccessible King, ghosts are thy subjects, and
Thy dark temples exclude the sun.

Thou dost crucify men, crucified Deity!
Thou with sadness the pure air dost contaminate!
Yet the heaven is bright, yet are the meadows green,
Yet with love-lights are flashing the

Eyes of Lydia. I yearn, Lydia, to see thee with
White-robed virginal choirs dance in Apollo's praise
Round his altar, as day dies and the westering
Sun stains rosy its Parian

Stone till gemlike it glows red 'mid the laurel-trees.
Oh, to witness thee then scatt'ring anemones,
Flashing joy from thine eyes, singing in harmony
Some sweet hymn of Bacchylides!