Madmoments: or First Verseattempts :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fair Daughter of Antiquity, chaste Bride
Of the pure Altar and the God to whom
Thou offeredst up thy Heart, and mad'st the Pride
Of Youth, its Pleasures and its fleeting Bloom,
A holy Sacrifice to win thee that
Diviner Love which passes not away:
By high Selfconquest fit a God to wed:
Methinks I see thee glide along and at
The Altar stand as in the bygone Day,
With Step which on the Earth scarce seems to tread!

2

Methinks I see thy long, fair Robes of White
Floating upon the Marble at thy Feet
In Folds as Summercloudlets soft: thy right
Hand laid upon thy Breast in Posture sweet
Of holy Meditation, veil'd there by
The gauzelike Vest which gives half to our View
The Swelling of the fair, chaste Limbs below,
And in thy Left, for sacred Ministry,
The Censer wherewith on the Flame to strew
The Perfumes: but mere emblematic Show

3

Is all this now! in his grand Epic Time
Employs thee as a Metaphor, he makes
Fact Fancy, and where Poets hint by Rhime
The Thing itself from real Life boldly takes!
How soft thy Motion! as on each fair Limb
Th' indwelling Soul impressed its own serene
And! deep Composure, from all Passion free
Which might the Maker's Image cloud or dim:

How chaste, how still, how holy is thy Mien!
The Temple's and the Altar's Sanctity

4

Still cling around, like Heaven's Atmosphere,
And hallow thee, as tho' an Angel were
Descended from his Ether calm and clear
With blessëd Tidings missioned—and thy Hair,
Thy golden Hair, divided on thy Brow,
Whence breathes a nameless Charm of Modesty
As from thy whole sweet Figure, is bound round
With the white Raiment which in Folds doth flow
Adown thy Shoulders, and thy fair Feet by
The Sandal girt glide on without a Sound!

5

Fairantique Maid! could those Lips speak they would
Give Oracles the Delphic Shrine ne'er heard,
Time's Mouthpiece tho' by so few understood!
Bright Forms float past me and thy Lips seem stirr'd.
Daughter of Sophocles, Antigone!
Child of his Spirit, born as if to right
His injured Name, say didst thou not look so,
Move so beside thine agëd Sire when he
Borrowed from thy sweet Eyes their holy Light
To cheer and lead him onward in his Woe?

6

Where art thou, Maiden with the fair, pale Brow?
Chaste Helen of the Soul! thou spotless Bride
Of daring Fancy, who would bring below
Some Shape of Ether with him to reside
In Love like that which sanctifies the Sky.

Bright Phantom, art thou dead, or didst thou e'er
Walk on this Earth so flat, so dull, and cold?
Methinks that Form was never made to die,
Methinks that Beauty Time nor Grief could sere,
In Substance glorified it grew not old!

7

Somewhere thou dwell'st in Blessedness: in some
One of those far Hesperian Isles, of which
Thy Poets dream'd nor vainly, thou an Home
Hast found, and there unchang'd thou liv'st on rich
In calm and serene Joys: tho' long since where
Thou erst didst dwell thy Name be quite effaced,
The Rose with its old Perfume still is sweet:
But where is now thy Temple once so fair,
With its longvista'd Columns, and the chaste,
Pure Marble echoing to thy sandal'd Feet?

8

Where is thine Altar? Echo answers, where?
Earth keeps no Vestige of them: like a Dream
They've pass'd away, nor on the Midnightair
Or Forest dim, nor yet by haunted Stream
Doth gray Tradition e'er pronounce that Name:
Her Lip is silent, where then can I find
Even a mossy Stone with Letters by
Time's slow Touch worn and lost for aye to Fame?
But still that nobler Ternple of thy Mind
Stands perfect in its own Eternity!

Sophocles, when cited by his thankless Son as no longer mindsound, triumphantly cleared himself by reading the just then written Tragedy of Ædipus Colonos.