These all have been thy priests. In times remote,
In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells,
They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note,
And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wells
Of leafy Helicon. Beneath the brows
Of fam'd Olympus and among the isles
Of the Aegean sea they paid their vows,
And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and smiles.
Nor strange to Zion's sanctuaried hill
Wast thou, embalmer of the holy page;
Ambrosial odors from thy garments fill
The garden where the amorous royal sage
Walk'd and discours'd with his beloved; there
Alluring in thy soft and sumptuous dress:
And to his kinglier sire supremely fair,
Companion sweet of meek-ey'd Holiness.
Thou hast no local temple, no set shrine;
Thou art diffus'd o'er earth and sky and sea;
In every land a thousand haunts are thine,
Spirits of every race respond to thee.
Here thy Olympus and thy Zion hill,
Thy silvery Aegean, I survey;
Thy majesty and loveliness at will
I view, and own thy tranquilizing sway.
THE DOCTOR.
He bent above our darling's bed
When her life was ebbing low,
And in his serious look we read
The truth we feared to know.
We knew a slender thread was all
That held her now; we saw
The dark, portentous shadow fall,
And near and nearer draw.
Our hopes were centred all in him;
We stood with bated breath
As, pitiful and calm and grim,
He fought and fought with Death.
We hung upon the desperate fight,
And saw in him combined
The tiger's stealth, the lion's might,
The man's superior mind.
We saw the fearful hate he bore
His old, relentless foe,
His beautiful compassion for
The one we cherished so.