Past temples vast, deluged with sandy seas, Whose ruins stand Like bleaching bones of dead monstrosities Crashed to the land, Stupendous homes of cursed idolatries Fallen to dust and sand.
Ugly and bestial gods caked thick with gold-- Their hideousness Blaspheming Christ--'mid shattered altars rolled To rottenness, Their slaves abolished and their priests of old Trodden to nothingness.
Thro' Syrian plains curtained with curling mist The grass she trailed, Where the shy floweret; by the dew-drop kissed, Sweet blushing quailed; And drowned in purple vales of amethyst The moon-mad bulbuls wailed.
On glimmering wolds had seemed to hear the bleat Of folded flocks; Seen broad-browed sages pass with sandaled feet And hoary locks, While swimming in a bath of molten heat A great star glorious rocks.
In fancy o'er a beaming baby bent-- Cradled amiss In a rude manger--on its brow to print One holy kiss, While down the slant winds faint aromas went And anthems deep of bliss....
And then she woke. The winter moon above Burst on her sight; And with strange sweetness all her dream was wove In its far flight, For jubilant bells rocked booming "peace and love" Down all the aisles of night.
I oft have net thee, Autumn, wandering Beside a misty stream, thy locks flung wild; Thy cheeks a hectic flush more fair than Spring, As if on thee the scarlet copse had smiled. Or thee I've seen a twisted oak beneath, Thy gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim, Beneath a faded oak from whose tinged leaves Thou woundedst drowsy wreaths, while the soft breath Of Morn did kiss thy locks and make them swim Far out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves.
Oft have I thee upon a hillock seen, Dream-visaged, all agaze at glimpses faint Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between With Indian faces from thy airy paint. Or I have met thee 'twixt two dappled hills Within a dingled valley nigh a fall, Clasped in thy tinted hand a ruddy flower, And lowly stooping where the leaf-dammed rills Went babbling low thro' wildwood's arrased hall, Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.
Oft have I seen thee in a ruined mill, Where basked the crimson creeper serpentine; Where fallen leaves did stir and rustle chill, And saw thee rest beneath a wild grape-vine. While Echo, sad amid his deep-voiced mountains-- More sad than erst--did raise a dreamy speech And call thee to his youthful, amorous arms, Where splashed the murmuring forest's limpid fountains; And tho' his words thy pink-shell ears did reach, Thou wouldst not heed or guile him with thy charms.