Him the Hesperides
Nursed on the marge of their enchanted shore,
And still the smile that then the Mother wore
Dimples the orient seas.
He died; and lo, the while
The fire consumed his ashes, glorious things
With joyous songs, and rainbow-tinted wings,
Rose from the funeral pile.
He died; and yet became
A music; and his Theban image broke
Into sweet sounds that with each sunrise spoke
The Mighty Mother's name.
O type, thy truth declare!
Who is the Child of the Melodious Morn?
Who bids the ashes earth receives—adorn
With new-born choirs the air?
What can the Statue be
That ever answers with enchanted voices
Each rising sun that on its front rejoices?
Speak!—"I am Poetry!"
THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD.
Upon a barren steep,
Above a stormy deep,
I saw an Angel watching the wild sea;
Earth was that barren steep,
Time was that stormy deep,
And the opposing shore—Eternity!
"Why dost thou watch the wave?
Thy feet the waters lave,
The tide engulfs thee if thou dost delay."
"Unscathed I watch the wave,
Time not the Angel's grave,
I wait until the ocean ebbs away."
Hush'd on the Angel's breast
I saw an Infant rest,
Smiling upon the gloomy hell below.
"What is the Infant press'd,
O Angel, to thy breast?"
"The child God gave me, in The Long Ago.