It stood, and sun and moonshine rained their light
On the pure columns of its glen-built hall.
Backward and forward rolled the waves of fight
Round Troy; but while this stood, Troy could not fall.
So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the soul.
Mountains surround it, and sweet virgin air;
Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters roll:
We visit it by moments, ah, too rare!
Men will renew the battle in the plain
To-morrow: red with blood will Xanthus be;
Hector and Ajax will be there again,
Helen will come upon the wall to see.
Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife,
And fluctuate ’twixt blind hopes and blind despairs,
And fancy that we put forth all our life,
And never know how with the soul it fares.
Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high,
Upon our life a ruling effluence send;
And when it fails, fight as we will, we die;
And, while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.
PROGRESS.
The Master stood upon the mount, and taught.
He saw a fire in his disciples’ eyes;
“The old law,” they said, “is wholly come to naught:
Behold the new world rise!”
“Was it,” the Lord then said, “with scorn ye saw
The old law observed by scribes and Pharisees?
I say unto you, see ye keep that law
More faithfully than these!
“Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas!
Think not that I to annul the law have willed:
No jot, no tittle, from the law shall pass
Till all have been fulfilled.”