WHERE ABID’ST THOU, PROPHET MIGHTY?
Where abid’st thou, prophet mighty?
Whom the fiery horses drew
Skyward from the Jordan’s rivage,
Till they faded from the view,—
Past the sceptre of Uriel,
Regent of the solar fire,
Past the starry Lion couchant,
And the planet-chorded Lyre;
Till the citadels of Heaven
O’er the Sea of Jasper flamed,
And thy wingëd yoke in triumph
At its golden gates was reined;
Thou hast clomb the grades of splendor,
As the ages rolled away,
Till at length cherubic legions
Thee as hierarch obey.
But thy fatherland has fallen
From the might of other days;
The anathemas of Ebal
Blight and wither all its race.
Gone the ivory house of pleasure,
Where the Syrian cedars grew,
Where the minions of Astarte
Could a monarch’s heart subdue;
Gone the carven lion-warders
From that monarch’s jewelled throne—
But the genii malignant
Still his mighty signet own;
Still his song instinct with passion,
Like a string of rubies glows;
Than the vaunted lays of Teïos
With a sweeter cadence flows.