THE BURNING TEMPLE
| The savage foes of
this lost land of ours Conspire to fire Antonius' shapely towers. Ere long the Temple proud, surpassing all Art's fairest gems, shall unto earth be bowed! Lo! through the lurid gloom the lightning's lash! And hark the unnatural thunder crash and boom! Moriah's marvellous fane is leaning low; [92] With cries of woe her rafters rend in twain; For our Imperial One is brought to naught. Yea, even where most cunningly she was wrought, The fire has cleft its way each coign into, For wood and stone searching her bosom through. Astonishingly high she took the blue, Yet weeping molten dross shall meet the ground— A sight for grief profound to gaze across. Flame follows flame, each like a giant worm, To feast and batten on her beauteous form. Through gold and silver doors they sinuous swarm And crop the carven flowers with gust enorme; Till all is emptiness. Then with hellish shout The embruted Gentiles in exultant rout Into her Holy of Holies profanely press! One streaming flood of steaming blood— Shudders her sacred pavement! |