Poems By William Bell Scott |
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III.
And yet to whom, O Sphynx,
Hast thou not ministered?
Before the Isis gates, the gates of stone,
Have mythic heroes and the sons of gods
Questioned of thee. Around thy feet
The hands of wandering Homer have perchance
Groped in his blindness, while he smiled,
Smiled strangely like old Saturn, as high thoughts,
Thoughts level with thy mysteries,
Lifted the lucid eyelids of his soul.
The lyre of Hermes may have rung to thee,
Before Dodona's leaves shook prophecies
On slumbering votaries; ere the white shafts rose
Fluted on Delphi, or Athenian streets
Had heard the voice of Socrates, nor yet
Was there a Calvary in all the world.
Hast thou not ministered?
Before the Isis gates, the gates of stone,
Have mythic heroes and the sons of gods
Questioned of thee. Around thy feet
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Groped in his blindness, while he smiled,
Smiled strangely like old Saturn, as high thoughts,
Thoughts level with thy mysteries,
Lifted the lucid eyelids of his soul.
The lyre of Hermes may have rung to thee,
Before Dodona's leaves shook prophecies
On slumbering votaries; ere the white shafts rose
Fluted on Delphi, or Athenian streets
Had heard the voice of Socrates, nor yet
Was there a Calvary in all the world.
The beacon-light from Pharos shines,
Guiding the prows with Sidon's wares,
Wine from Chios, Samian earth
Transformed to gold by potters' cunning hands;
Awhile it shines, and then the stars again
Heaven's watchers are alone. But now instead
Of monstrous hieroglyph, the preacher calls,
Preacher and bishop, and the cenobite
Hurries half naked by,
Smiting thee on the face with his strong hand,
Strong to destroy all gods save one,
The Unseen, Unknown, unto whom thou art
Thyself a minister, although unnamed
In the evangel by whose word he lives,
And by whose light he weaves the Thebaid straws.
Weave on! lean cenobite, take not again
The purple and fine linen, thou hast seen
Bread brought to thee by ravens from heaven's board,—
Souls passing upward upon angel's wings,—
And like the red edge of averted thunder,
Roll back the earthly, Typhon fall sheer down.
Heaven's face is visible, and man's heart throbs
Shedding joy-tears into the passion-cup;
For are not all old things now passed?
Alas! and he too is now passed, long since
His love-feast cup is dry as Odin's shell,
Yet heaven's face brightens still, and through the sand
Deepening about thy flanks
Cryest thou, O Sphynx, for burial with thy kin.
Guiding the prows with Sidon's wares,
Wine from Chios, Samian earth
Transformed to gold by potters' cunning hands;
Awhile it shines, and then the stars again
Heaven's watchers are alone. But now instead
Of monstrous hieroglyph, the preacher calls,
Preacher and bishop, and the cenobite
Hurries half naked by,
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Strong to destroy all gods save one,
The Unseen, Unknown, unto whom thou art
Thyself a minister, although unnamed
In the evangel by whose word he lives,
And by whose light he weaves the Thebaid straws.
Weave on! lean cenobite, take not again
The purple and fine linen, thou hast seen
Bread brought to thee by ravens from heaven's board,—
Souls passing upward upon angel's wings,—
And like the red edge of averted thunder,
Roll back the earthly, Typhon fall sheer down.
Heaven's face is visible, and man's heart throbs
Shedding joy-tears into the passion-cup;
For are not all old things now passed?
Alas! and he too is now passed, long since
His love-feast cup is dry as Odin's shell,
Yet heaven's face brightens still, and through the sand
Deepening about thy flanks
Cryest thou, O Sphynx, for burial with thy kin.
| Poems | |