 | From Sunset Ridge |  |
182
THE THREE
From Orient's spicy groves we come;
Beyond the desert lies our home
Where, grand with jewels and with gold,
Our haughty kings their sceptres hold.
Beyond the desert lies our home
Where, grand with jewels and with gold,
Our haughty kings their sceptres hold.
We journey far, and not of choice,
In answer to a warning voice:
“Forsake the purple gates of morn,
Westward the world's true King is born.”
Him should our thoughts more fitly deem
Cradled in groves of Academe,
Or where the circling chariots speed
And bards rehearse the victor's meed:
Or nursed at Egypt's awful shrine
Where wells the wondrous flood divine.
But 'mid the stars our guiding light
Hither doth lead—by day and night;
We follow with unwearied feet,
The portent of the fates to greet.
In answer to a warning voice:
“Forsake the purple gates of morn,
Westward the world's true King is born.”
Him should our thoughts more fitly deem
Cradled in groves of Academe,
Or where the circling chariots speed
And bards rehearse the victor's meed:
Or nursed at Egypt's awful shrine
Where wells the wondrous flood divine.
But 'mid the stars our guiding light
Hither doth lead—by day and night;
We follow with unwearied feet,
The portent of the fates to greet.
STROPHE FIRST
Give us comfort, Aphrodite, thou art fair,
Lo! the sunbeams light the meshes of thy hair:
And thy car is drawn by doves
To the height of human loves,
While thy perfumes float, like incense, on the air.
Lo! the sunbeams light the meshes of thy hair:
And thy car is drawn by doves
To the height of human loves,
While thy perfumes float, like incense, on the air.
183
ANTI-STROPHE FIRST
Nay—the joys I bring are ravishing, but brief,And my servants shun the lonely house of grief.
All my songs are tuned to pleasure,
To the dancing Lydian measure—
Not of me is born the soul-commanding chief.
STROPHE SECOND
Mother Isis, with the lotus blossom crowned,Shall Earth's rescue in thy child beloved be found?
Wilt thou loose him from thy arms,
With his amulets and charms,
That the song of our redemption may resound?
ANTI-STROPHE SECOND
Ye unhappy ones, no succor seek from me,I am pledged to Death's unfruitful majesty.
Ever, in sepulchral state,
Must I mourn my vanished mate,
And my son alone may bear me company.
| From Sunset Ridge | |