"And HE, the trident-wielder, still shall see And bathe thy drowsy eyelids with the light, And thou, ah, thou! Born of the white sea-foam That dreams a-troubled still around thy home,- Where waters murmur and the dim leaves bow: At midnight's pallid noon Shall still be charmed from his dewy sleep By the foolish, lovesick Moon, Who thrills to find him in some lovely vale And PAN shall play his pleasant reed Down in the hush'd arcades, And fauns shall prank the sward amid "Nor absent SHE whose eyes of azure throw Truth's sunburst on the world below: Still shall she calmly watch the choral years Circling fast the beamy spheres That tremble as she marches through their plains, While momently rolls out a sullen sound From Error's hoary mountains tumbling round,— Heard by the Titan, who from his high rock, Filled with immortal pains That his immortal spirit still can mock, The frost, the heat, the vulture, and the storm,— Earth's ancient vales rejoicing in his fire, The homes, the loves of men,-those beings wrought In the grand quiet of his own great thought: Thou, PSYCHE! glory-cinctured, shalt be seen, Men and their deities, alike, on common land." Like far-off stars that glimmer in a cloud, Deathless, O Gods! shall ye illume the past; To you the poet-voice will cry aloud, Faithful among the faithless, to the last― "Ye must not die!" Long as the dim robes of the ages trail O'er Delphi's steep or Tempe's flowery vale— Though time and storm your calm old temples rend, EL AMIN-THE FAITHFUL. WHO is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride, But a great free son of Nature, lion-soul'd and eagle-eyed: Who is this before whose presence idols tumble to the sod? While he cries out-" Allah Akbar! and there is no god but God!" Wandering in the solemn desert, he has wonder'd like a child Not as yet too proud to wonder, at the sun and star and wild. "O, thou Moon! who made thy brightness? Stars! who hung ye there on high? Answer! so my soul may worship: I must worship, or I die." Then there fell the brooding silence that precedes the thunder's roll; And the old Arabian Whirlwind called another Arab soul. Who is this that comes from Hara? not in kingly pomp and pride, But a great free son of Nature, lion-soul'd and eagle-eyed: He has stood and seen Mount Hara to the Awful Presence nod; He has heard from cloud and lightning-"Know there is no god but God!" this man 66 Faithful, when an impostor?"-He was call'd The A boy he wander'd o'er the deserts, by the wild-eyed Arab men. He was always call'd The Faithful. Truth he knew was Allah's breath; But the Lie went darkly gnashing through the corridors of Death. "He was fierce!"-Yes! fierce at falsehood,-fierce at hideous bits of wood That the Koreish taught the people made the sun and solitude. But his heart was also gentle; and affection's graceful palm, Waving in his tropic spirit, to the weary brought a balm. "Precepts?"-Have on each compassion! Lead the stranger to your door! In your dealings keep up justice! Give a tenth unto the poor! "Yet, ambitious!"-Yes! ambitious-while he heard the calm and sweet Aidenn-voices sing-to trample conquer'd Hell beneath his feet. وو "Islam?"—Yes! submit to heaven!" Prophet? -To the East thou art! What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the heart? And the great Heart of the Desert stirr❜d unto that solemn strain Rolling from the trump at Hara over Error's troubled main. And a hundred dusky millions honor still El Amin's rod, Daily chaunting-“Allah Akbar! know there is no god but God!" Call him then no more Impostor! Mecca is the Choral Gate Where, till Zion's noon shall take them, nations in the morning wait. WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. Born at Salem, Mass: 1819— PRAXITELES AND PHRYNE. A THOUSAND silent years ago, When from his work the Sculptor stay'd His hand, and, turn'd to one Who stood beside him, half in shade, Said, with a sigh-""Tis done! "Thus much is saved from chance and change, That waits for me and thee; Thus much-how little! from the range Of Death and Destiny. "Phryne! thy human lips shall pale, Nor love nor prayers can aught avail "But there thy smile for centuries For Art can grant what love denies, "Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade The youth of this cold bust; When this quick brain and hand that made, And thou and I are dust! "When all our hopes and fears are dead, "This senseless stone, so coldly fair, "Its peace no sorrow shall destroy; The bitterness of vanish'd joy, "And there upon that silent face "And strangers, when we sleep in peace, Shall say, not quite unmoved— So smiled upon Praxiteles The Phryne whom he loved." |