TO X
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Boast not, poor man, that thou hast measured time, And named it feeble seven thousand years, Lest all the lore and wit of all thy seers Must brand thee fool, and name thy folly crime. I say that I have seen an eon's rime Upon thy father's head, and bitter tears, Quintillions old. And countless fears, Remembered from an old world's mapless clime. Nor call thy folly old,—'twas surely born When thou didst cease to think. Thou hast a child, Whose beauty brands thee for a thing forsworn. Leave thou its tender reason undefiled! For shame to chain the base of all thy glory, Upon an olden tale, a useless allegory! |
ON A FESTAL NIGHT
|
Above the city hangs a limpid glare, From hollow laughter's laden festal board: Thou seest the lover fondling his adored— Thou hearest music singing of her hair. Thou seest the tryst that's neither here nor there. Thou seest the gallant with his mocking sword, And honor at his feet;—the miser's hoard, And Lo! the music, sword, and tryst are there. Say when has music breathed a song, Encored so long as yonder jingling gold? Say when do lover's wand'ring from the throng, Turn wholly from the mart where love is sold? Ah man! were gold where erst it did belong Then love were winged music as of old. |
TO X
|
And thou hast seen yon priest in holy stole, But thinkest, never yet a jackal's skin, Embodied more hereditary sin— And he with healing ointment for the soul, May not remember when his own was whole. Behold a myriad monks he ushereth in Whom dol'rous chant pronounceth holy kin, And yet each readeth from a foreign scroll. When all these jarring sects pronounce decree, Then must thou wait another Fiat lux. Old Chaos slumbering in eternity, Hath writ his secret hope in monkish books, That some shall beckon when his reign shall be— And even now the priestly finger crooks. |