 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
The virgin dew yet on the verdure hung,
When, one by one, the mourners of the lost
Stole to the Street of Sepulchres and sat
Beside the ashes of their ancestors,
Watching the beams that nevermore would greet
The perished, and, (they thought not,) nevermore
Pompeii guide to her festivities!
Few, on this mission of elysian love,
Left Tyrian couches and the bliss of sense;
Yet they were blest in the seraphic gift
Of feeling, which in solitude is heaven!
Tombs were the earliest temples, the first prayers
Gushings of grief, the holiest offerings,
Tears of bereavement, and the loveliest hymns,
Sighs over the departed; worship, then,
Rose from the heart, that mid these simple rites,
Felt no delusion or vain mystery:
Urns were the altars, and the incense, love.
The sodden pulse, offered by humble faith,
Desiring not demanding, far outweighed
Oblations chosen from barbaric spoils;
And with a purer purpose, poverty
Knelt by the wayside image of a god
Than gorgeous pontiffs by Olympian shrines.
When, one by one, the mourners of the lost
Stole to the Street of Sepulchres and sat
Beside the ashes of their ancestors,
Watching the beams that nevermore would greet
The perished, and, (they thought not,) nevermore
Pompeii guide to her festivities!
Few, on this mission of elysian love,
Left Tyrian couches and the bliss of sense;
Yet they were blest in the seraphic gift
Of feeling, which in solitude is heaven!
Tombs were the earliest temples, the first prayers
Gushings of grief, the holiest offerings,
Tears of bereavement, and the loveliest hymns,
Sighs over the departed; worship, then,
Rose from the heart, that mid these simple rites,
Felt no delusion or vain mystery:
Urns were the altars, and the incense, love.
87
Desiring not demanding, far outweighed
Oblations chosen from barbaric spoils;
And with a purer purpose, poverty
Knelt by the wayside image of a god
Than gorgeous pontiffs by Olympian shrines.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |