 | [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary |  |
THE PAST AND PRESENT.
Ye everlasting conjurers of ill,
Who fear the Samiel in the lightest breeze,
Go, moralize with Marius, if you will,
In the old cradle of the sciences!
Bid the sarcophagi unclose their lids—
Drag the colossal sphinxes forth to view—
Rouse up the builders of the pyramids,
And raise the labyrinthian shrines anew;
And see the haughty favorite of the fates—
The arbiter of myriad destinies:
Thebes, with her “feast of lights” and hundred gates,—
And Carthage, mother of sworn enmities,
Not mantled with the desolate weeds and dust
Of centuries, but as she sat apart,
Nursing her lions, ere the eagle thrust
His bloody talons deep into her heart;—
Then say, what was she in her palmiest times
That we should mourn forever for the past?
In fame, a very Babylon—her crimes
The plague-spot of the nations to the last!
Who fear the Samiel in the lightest breeze,
Go, moralize with Marius, if you will,
In the old cradle of the sciences!
Bid the sarcophagi unclose their lids—
Drag the colossal sphinxes forth to view—
Rouse up the builders of the pyramids,
And raise the labyrinthian shrines anew;
And see the haughty favorite of the fates—
The arbiter of myriad destinies:
Thebes, with her “feast of lights” and hundred gates,—
And Carthage, mother of sworn enmities,
Not mantled with the desolate weeds and dust
Of centuries, but as she sat apart,
Nursing her lions, ere the eagle thrust
His bloody talons deep into her heart;—
Then say, what was she in her palmiest times
That we should mourn forever for the past?
In fame, a very Babylon—her crimes
The plague-spot of the nations to the last!
And Rome! the seven-hilled city; she that rose
Girt with the majesty of peerless might,
From out the ashes of her fallen foes—
She in whose lap was poured, like streams of light,
The wealth of nations: was she not endowed
With that most perilous gift of beauty—pride?
And spite of all her glories blazoned loud,
Idolatrous, voluptuous, and allied
Closer to vice than virtue? Hark! the sounds
Of tramping thousands in her stony street!
And now the amphitheatre resounds
With acclamations for the engrossing feat!
Draw near, where men of war and senates stood,
And see the pastime, whence they joyance drank,—
The Lybian lion lapping the warm blood
Oozed from the Dacian's bosom. On the bank
Of the sweet Danube, smiling children wait
To greet their sire, unconscious of his fate.
Oh, draw the wildering veil a little back,
Ye blind idolators of things that were;
Who, through the glory trailing in their track,
See but the whiteness of the sepulchre!
Girt with the majesty of peerless might,
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She in whose lap was poured, like streams of light,
The wealth of nations: was she not endowed
With that most perilous gift of beauty—pride?
And spite of all her glories blazoned loud,
Idolatrous, voluptuous, and allied
Closer to vice than virtue? Hark! the sounds
Of tramping thousands in her stony street!
And now the amphitheatre resounds
With acclamations for the engrossing feat!
Draw near, where men of war and senates stood,
And see the pastime, whence they joyance drank,—
The Lybian lion lapping the warm blood
Oozed from the Dacian's bosom. On the bank
Of the sweet Danube, smiling children wait
To greet their sire, unconscious of his fate.
Oh, draw the wildering veil a little back,
Ye blind idolators of things that were;
Who, through the glory trailing in their track,
See but the whiteness of the sepulchre!
Then to the Present turning, ye will see
Even as one, the universal mind
Rousing, like genius from a reverie,
With the exalted aim to serve mankind:
Lo! as my song is closing, I can feel
The spirit of the Present in my heart;
And for the future, with a wiser zeal,
In life's great drama I would act my part:
That they may say, who see the curtain fall
And from the closing scene in silence go,
Haply as some light favor they recall,
Peace to her ashes,—she hath lessened woe!
Even as one, the universal mind
Rousing, like genius from a reverie,
With the exalted aim to serve mankind:
Lo! as my song is closing, I can feel
The spirit of the Present in my heart;
And for the future, with a wiser zeal,
In life's great drama I would act my part:
That they may say, who see the curtain fall
And from the closing scene in silence go,
Haply as some light favor they recall,
Peace to her ashes,—she hath lessened woe!
| [Poems by Cary in] The poems of Alice and Phoebe Cary | |