The Alhambra and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oft to the men of battle poets raise
An ode of praise,
And oft the choric epitaph they rear
Above the bier
Of valour,—resolute, without disdain,
Though godly Spain,
Invincible, in cannon-freighted keel,
From Cadiz steal,
Or godless France her flaming fingers lave
In Egypt's wave,
And yellowing harvest-fields of Belgium beat
With blood-bedabbled feet.

And oft to Love the Muses will return
From themes more stern,
To build a stately altar to his name,
And feed his flame
With thrice-distilléd oils of simple joy,
Unwont to cloy;
That there with hushed and hesitating feet
May lovers meet,
And learn the secret of his mystic power,—
That the only flower
Of perfect chastity proceeds
From mutual passion's wingéd seeds.

Alas! why strike we no sublimer string,
Nor dare to sing
Jehovah, and his mercies manifold,
Renowned of old
In Judah's temple? where, like seraphim's
Majestic hymns,
Antiphonies 'neath cedarn arches rolled,
To harps of gold
And dulcimers; while damsels, dancing round,
Shook forth the timbrel's sound.

When erst, O God, the Hebrew minstrel tried
From thee to hide,
In vain 'neath muffling canopies of night
He shunned thy sight,
In vain o'er ocean-solitudes was borne
On wings of morn;
Beyond the universe's utmost bound
Thy face he found,
Beyond the stars and light's extremest belt
Thy presence felt;
For when he turned from thee and fled,
Thy spirit followed not, but led.

But now the shelvéd record of the rocks
The psalmist mocks;
Before thy motion at primeval dawn
A veil is drawn
Of countless ages; down a myriad links
Creation sinks
Through teeming generations, swarm on swarm,
From form to form!

The abyss is void of thee, and back we reel
And vainly feel
The stars,—if in the heavens may linger
One impress of their maker's finger!

Yet, though thou dwell'st not in the empyrean,
We raise our pæan
To thee, who ridest not the wind nor storm,
Whom neither form
Nor hue reveals, nor substance can contain,
Nor symbol vain!
To thee, who art not God of sect or race,
Of land or place,
Of century or era, age or æon,
We raise our solemn pæan!

Sing, every voice, that never chanted spell
To cozen hell,
Nor sought by adulation, born of fear,
To charm God's ear!
Blow, trumpets, blow, that shatter to the ground,
With sevenfold sound,
The walls of superstition and offence
Against God's sense;
And ye, that live by love's harmonious law,
Soft music draw,
With fingers fleet, from lyre and lute,
Like forest rain, when winds are mute!

Eternally revealed, yet never known,
Thee, thee we own!
From man's false images of thee are cast
The shadows vast

Of doubt and dread, that lie upon his mind
So black inclined!
Yet shadows are but measures of the light;
The darkest night
Is but the token of the sun withdrawn,
The promise of a dawn.