 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
326
GLENDALOCH.
Here where Time's pillar'd tower, sublime and vast,
Lifts to the skies its hoar and awful brow,
And seems to moan and mutter o'er the waste
Passion's wild horror and Despair's last vow,
While Night o'er healthy hills, and moors below,
Sinks like Death's shadow on the slumbering brain,
And Avonmore's deep torrent voice of woe
Roars like the howl of ghosts on battle plain,—
I stand alone and gaze o'er centuries of pain.
Lifts to the skies its hoar and awful brow,
And seems to moan and mutter o'er the waste
Passion's wild horror and Despair's last vow,
While Night o'er healthy hills, and moors below,
Sinks like Death's shadow on the slumbering brain,
And Avonmore's deep torrent voice of woe
Roars like the howl of ghosts on battle plain,—
I stand alone and gaze o'er centuries of pain.
Here rose the incense of unhallowed rites
When startling Horror was the wild man's god;
The dusky glen laughed wild 'neath ghastly lights,
The cavern altar shook its blaze abroad,
And idol worshippers in quick blood trod!
Pity beheld,—her only voice was tears,—
Truth whispered vainly from the gory sod,—
While reigned the Dæmon in unutter'd fears,
Shrieking redeemless woe from all the darkened spheres.
When startling Horror was the wild man's god;
The dusky glen laughed wild 'neath ghastly lights,
The cavern altar shook its blaze abroad,
And idol worshippers in quick blood trod!
Pity beheld,—her only voice was tears,—
Truth whispered vainly from the gory sod,—
While reigned the Dæmon in unutter'd fears,
Shrieking redeemless woe from all the darkened spheres.
Here Shiloh's glory gleamed on midnight minds,
And Fable feigned when Oracles were still;
Music and prophecy were in the winds,
Saints in the vale and sages on the hill,
And angels passive to the voiceless will;
Leaves had their missions,—waters held a power
Of bale or bliss, and fearful hearts did thrill
Beneath the unseen influence of the hour
When darkness clomb the mount and storms began to lower.
And Fable feigned when Oracles were still;
Music and prophecy were in the winds,
Saints in the vale and sages on the hill,
And angels passive to the voiceless will;
Leaves had their missions,—waters held a power
Of bale or bliss, and fearful hearts did thrill
Beneath the unseen influence of the hour
When darkness clomb the mount and storms began to lower.
327
When Evil entered man's o'ermastered heart
The savage wrath of beasts revealed his fall,
And Hate and Envy, each his bitter part,
Pursued in him, who on the azure wall
Of Eden saw his doom,—yet knew not all!
Knew not that Truth should perish for Deceit,
And Love for Mammon,—and that Peace should call
God's own adores at His shrine to meet
In vain while zealots warr'd and spurn'd her to their feet!
The savage wrath of beasts revealed his fall,
And Hate and Envy, each his bitter part,
Pursued in him, who on the azure wall
Of Eden saw his doom,—yet knew not all!
Knew not that Truth should perish for Deceit,
And Love for Mammon,—and that Peace should call
God's own adores at His shrine to meet
In vain while zealots warr'd and spurn'd her to their feet!
This, old Glendaloch! thou too oft hast seen!
Pagan or catholic, Power wields the doom,
And Passion tramples over what hath been,
And Pride vaunts empire o'er the martyr's tomb.
E'en now strange beings mingle with thy gloom,
And wild Glendasan, as it plunges, shrieks
Amid thy holy ruin's dreadful womb,
And every vast tree from its foliage speaks,
And from the starless heaven the crashing thunder breaks.
Pagan or catholic, Power wields the doom,
And Passion tramples over what hath been,
And Pride vaunts empire o'er the martyr's tomb.
E'en now strange beings mingle with thy gloom,
And wild Glendasan, as it plunges, shrieks
Amid thy holy ruin's dreadful womb,
And every vast tree from its foliage speaks,
And from the starless heaven the crashing thunder breaks.
Faith without knowledge every arch and nook
Hath robed with sanctity; the sculptured nave,
The vaulted cloister, where the sable rook
And owlet moan and croak; the mouldered grave,
And every idle stone! What deeper slave
Clanks his cold fetters in unguerdoned toil
Than bigot Pride, that cannot cease to crave
Poison, and consecrates each dusky aisle
Where every creed was preached—save Heaven's unchanging smile.
Hath robed with sanctity; the sculptured nave,
The vaulted cloister, where the sable rook
And owlet moan and croak; the mouldered grave,
And every idle stone! What deeper slave
Clanks his cold fetters in unguerdoned toil
Than bigot Pride, that cannot cease to crave
Poison, and consecrates each dusky aisle
Where every creed was preached—save Heaven's unchanging smile.
Banished to deserts and the caves of earth,
With austere eye and form by penance scarr'd,
How should thy charms win man to Heaven's high birth,
Religion! when thy golden gates are barr'd?
Greater than all is thy supreme reward
Both in thyself and nature and the Love,
That gives and gains new beauty! with the bard
To Avonmore, to fair Avoca's grove
Go, worship in the sun and God's own blessing prove!
With austere eye and form by penance scarr'd,
How should thy charms win man to Heaven's high birth,
Religion! when thy golden gates are barr'd?
Greater than all is thy supreme reward
Both in thyself and nature and the Love,
That gives and gains new beauty! with the bard
To Avonmore, to fair Avoca's grove
Go, worship in the sun and God's own blessing prove!
328
Go, mantle all things with a holy hope,
The spirit of a prophecy benign,
A blessedness and beauty; on the slope
Of newmown hillside, 'neath the bowery vine,
Or by the clear brook's margent,—all are thine!
And it were wise to give thy free soul up
To quick imaginings and thoughts divine,
With living flowers in grassy meads to sup,
And hear mind's beings laugh in every bluebell's cup.
The spirit of a prophecy benign,
A blessedness and beauty; on the slope
Of newmown hillside, 'neath the bowery vine,
Or by the clear brook's margent,—all are thine!
And it were wise to give thy free soul up
To quick imaginings and thoughts divine,
With living flowers in grassy meads to sup,
And hear mind's beings laugh in every bluebell's cup.
But sink, thou monkish monument! and ye,
Gray, ghastly ruins of a faith blasphemed!
It is not thus thy sons should worship Thee,
Whose name is Love; nor have I idly dreamed,
But drank the glory that on me hath gleamed,
And sought in God's own works his pleasure best.
Not in vain temples, have I ever deemed,
Dwells the Great Spirit, but His holiest rest
Must be upon the throne of youth's still thoughtful breast.
Gray, ghastly ruins of a faith blasphemed!
It is not thus thy sons should worship Thee,
Whose name is Love; nor have I idly dreamed,
But drank the glory that on me hath gleamed,
And sought in God's own works his pleasure best.
Not in vain temples, have I ever deemed,
Dwells the Great Spirit, but His holiest rest
Must be upon the throne of youth's still thoughtful breast.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |