 | Poems of Charles Warren Stoddard . |  |
89
SANCTUARY
Surely some sacrilegious hand
Hath robbed the temples of their store
Of relics, up and down the land,
And hurled the altars o'er.
Hath robbed the temples of their store
Of relics, up and down the land,
And hurled the altars o'er.
And strewn the treasures all among
These quiet valleys. As I walk
I find a pearly rosary hung
Upon this lily stalk.
These quiet valleys. As I walk
I find a pearly rosary hung
Upon this lily stalk.
Hath timid maid, or tearful nun
Bethought her of this lone retreat
Yet, with her “Ave” scarce begun,
Her prayer-beads at her feet,
Bethought her of this lone retreat
Yet, with her “Ave” scarce begun,
Her prayer-beads at her feet,
Intruders bid her quickly fly,
And flying, frighted, she forgets
That where she knelt in secret lie
Her glittering amulets.
And flying, frighted, she forgets
That where she knelt in secret lie
Her glittering amulets.
90
Alas! how poor, how desolate
The place where man strode rudely by,
The pink no more shall elevate
Its chalice to the sky.
The place where man strode rudely by,
The pink no more shall elevate
Its chalice to the sky.
And here are bleeding roses shorn
Along the hedge—by shearer vext,
Rare antique rubrics—roughly torn
From that quaint leafy text.
Along the hedge—by shearer vext,
Rare antique rubrics—roughly torn
From that quaint leafy text.
And thistle-aspergills bestrew
Meek buds that nestle at their side
With holy drops of luscious dew
That night hath sanctified.
Meek buds that nestle at their side
With holy drops of luscious dew
That night hath sanctified.
The morning-glory's fragile cup
A lucent honey-drop could boast;
Fair monstrance—it is broken up,
And veiléd is the Host.
A lucent honey-drop could boast;
Fair monstrance—it is broken up,
And veiléd is the Host.
And what is this that greeteth me,
The Calla, that I prize above
All lilies? so I mention thee,
O! lily of my love—
The Calla, that I prize above
All lilies? so I mention thee,
O! lily of my love—
91
A perfumed satin altar cloth
With one tall, golden candlestick;
A velvet butterfly's the moth
That frets thy rosy wick.
With one tall, golden candlestick;
A velvet butterfly's the moth
That frets thy rosy wick.
Thy spotless napkin doth enfold
Such balm and costly frankincense,
As shrouds the swinging censer's gold
In clouds that struggle thence.
Such balm and costly frankincense,
As shrouds the swinging censer's gold
In clouds that struggle thence.
But now I hear the vesper call
Of floating air-bells, deftly tipt;
The dove's at her confessional—
The monk-mole in his crypt.
Of floating air-bells, deftly tipt;
The dove's at her confessional—
The monk-mole in his crypt.
And flowery fields my eyes engage;
The rivulets, the winding ways—
A missal, whose illumined page
Is given up to praise.
The rivulets, the winding ways—
A missal, whose illumined page
Is given up to praise.
So if none false hath donned the gown
And sought the votive priest to play,
Then thrown the sacred altars down
And hid the charms away—
And sought the votive priest to play,
Then thrown the sacred altars down
And hid the charms away—
92
Dear Nature is the saint that rears
This sanctuary to our God—
And still renews through all the years
Where hateful feet have trod.
This sanctuary to our God—
And still renews through all the years
Where hateful feet have trod.
| Poems of Charles Warren Stoddard . | |