XCI

That the mocked symbols of a faith accursed
Should crown those altar-places desolate,
The fondest, latest by religion nursed?
When Truth should point her path to heaven, and fate
Become a word to raise the smile sedate,
When the gods multiform should bow to One?
Lo, there the victors on the vanquished wait;
The secrets of their creed revealed in stone,
For heathen scorn and gibe while lightly passing on.

XCII

The spurned, the trampled to the dust have risen;
The slaves are conquerors, the cross of wood
Is reared o'er marble; — what can truth imprison?
On those grey columns, once where heroes stood,
Standmartyrs, men who poured forth their hearts' blood
For that first cause of all, they deemed divine.
So time rolls on; states trace their paths renewed,
Owning forewritten mandates of decline;
Light mutability, our name, our life, is thine!

XCIII

Peace to such thoughts! nor vain, nor fruitless all
Of wisdom's gathering, for they teach us more
To enjoy life's flowers, while yet the coronal
And gift are ours; I turn to thee, pale shore
Of distant Light! and while my heart flows o'er
With feeling shed like rays from thy full urn,
My spirit on thy shrine itself would pour
In softness and affectionate hope, and yearn
To tell its joy to thee, as if thou couldst return,

XCIV

Thou rolling Moon! my thoughts to me again;
For thou wast lighted by thy sun to be
A lamp and altar-place of peace for men;
From the creation they have turned to thee,
Wakeful, or rising from sleep silently,
To breathe their secrets to the One, and own
That faith whose resting-place is certainty,
Then while hope, gazing, felt thou wast the throne
And stepping-stone of prayer, the shadow of the unknown.

XCV

Yet show'st thou too thy ruins, a world dead,
Even as these wrecks chaotic round me piled.
Beneath those light-veils, o'er thy forehead spread,
We gaze on desolation waste and wild;
Held'st thou a race that breathed not life defiled?
Have wave-whelmed generations on thee trod?
Or art thou stamped creation's youngest child,
Where yet in holiest innocence unawed,
Spiritual things shall walk through Eden-paths to God?

XCVI

Thou hast no state, or fall'n or raised, bright Orb!
That blends itself not with our human feeling,
We whom in turns the soul or sense absorb.
Even now o'er the arena thou art stealing
With hallowing light, or the rapt mind, appealing
To thee, invests with an informing tone,
As if thy ministering beams were healing,
By covering with a robe of beauty thrown
Rents that in day's broad eye too nakedly are shown.