| |
| WITH no sharp-sided peak or sudden cone, | |
| Thou risest o’er the blank Thessalian plain, | |
| But in the semblance of a rounded throne, | |
| Meet for a monarch and his noble train | |
| To hold high synod;—but I feel it vain, | 5 |
| With my heart full and passionate as now, | |
| To frame my humble verse, as I would fain, | |
| To calm description,—I can only bow | |
| My head and soul, and ask again, “if that be thou?” | |
| |
| I feel before thee, as of old I felt | 10 |
| (With sense as just, more vivid in degree), | |
| When first I entered and unconscious knelt | |
| Within the Roman Martyr’s sanctuary: | |
| I feel that ages laid their faith on thee, | |
| And if to me thou art a holy hill, | 15 |
| Let not the pious scorn,—that piety | |
| Though veiled, that truth though shadowy, were still | |
| All the world had to raise its heart and fallen will. | |
| |
| Thou shrine which man, of his own natural thought, | |
| Gave to the God of Nature, and girt round | 20 |
| With elemental mightiness, and brought | |
| Splendor of form and depth of thunderous sound, | |
| To wall about with awe the chosen ground,— | |
| All without toil of slaves or lavished gold, | |
| Thou wert upbuilt of memories profound, | 25 |
| Imaginations wonderful and old, | |
| And the pure gems that lie in poets’ hearts untold. | |
| |
| God was upon thee in a thousand forms | |
| Of terror and of beauty, stern and fair, | |
| Upgathered in the majesty of storms, | 30 |
| Or floating in the film of summer air; | |
| Thus wert thou made ideal everywhere; | |
| From thee the odorous plumes of love were spread, | |
| Delight and plenty through all lands to bear,— | |
| From thee the never-erring bolt was sped | 35 |
| To curb the impious hand or blast the perjured head. | |
| |
| How many a boy, in his full noon of faith, | |
| Leaning against the Parthenon, half-blind | |
| With inner light, and holding in his breath, | |
| Awed by the image of his own high mind, | 40 |
| Has seen the Goddess there so proudly shrined, | |
| Leave for a while her loved especial home, | |
| And pass, though wingless, on the northward wind, | |
| On to thy height, beneath the eternal dome, | |
| Where Heaven’s grand councils wait, till Wisdom’s self shall come! | 45 |
| |
| Ours is another world, and godless now | |
| Thy ample crown; ’t is well,—yes,—be it so, | |
| But I can weep this moment, when thy brow, | |
| Light-covered with fresh hoar of autumn snow, | |
| Shines in white light and dullness, which bestow | 50 |
| New grace of reverend loveliness, as seen | |
| With the long mass of gloomy hills below: | |
| Blest be our open faith! too grand, I ween, | |
| To grudge these votive tears to beauty that has been. | |
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