IDOLS.
In each man’s heart a secret temple stands
For rites idolatrous of praise and prayer;
And dusky idols through the incensed air,
On single thrones, or grouped in curious bands,
Gaze at the lamp which swings in memory’s hands,—
Some richly carved, with face of beauty rare,
Some with brute heads and bosoms foul and bare,
Yet crowned with gold and gems from distant lands.
Take now thy torch, descend the winding years,
The silent stair-way to thy secret shrine,
And see what Dagon crowns the topmost shelf
With front aggressive, served through hopes and fears
In ceaseless cult by love that counts divine
His every blemish,—is not Dagon SELF?
SOLOMON.
A double line of columns, white as snow,
And vaulted with mosaics rich in flowers,
Makes square this cypress grove where fountain showers
From golden basins cool the grass below;
While from that archway strains of music flow,
And laughings of fair girls beguile the hours.
But brooding, like one held by evil powers,
The great King heeds not, pacing sad and slow.
His heart hath drained earth’s pleasures to the lees,
Hath quivered with life’s finest ecstasies;
Yet now some power reveals as in a glass
The soul’s unrest and death’s dark mysteries,
And down the courts the scared slaves watch him pass,
Reiterating, “Omnia Vanitas!”
OUT OF THE STORM.
The huge winds gather on the midnight lake,
Shaggy with rain and loud with foam-white feet,
Then bound through miles of darkness till they meet
The harboured ships and city’s squares, and wake
From steeples, domes and houses sounds that take
A human speech, the storm’s mad course to greet;
And nightmare voices through the rain and sleet
Pass shrieking, till the town’s rock-sinews shake.