 | Lazarus And other Poems |  |
And yet among our people, on the heights
Of Phrygia's hills, and round the ancient shrines
Of old Galatian towns, there lingered still
Some traces of the wild, mysterious power,
The spell that bound our fathers to their faith.
The beardless priests of Cybele would wave
Their wands, and clash their cymbals, and their song,
First stealing through the brain with subtle power,
Waking each nerve to tension,—then with floods
Of surging sound tumultuous, sweeping on,
Like some great river foaming in its pride,
Filled all the soul with madness; and the charm,
In one wild, dizzy, whirling, frenzied dance,
Drew all who worshipped; and the drops poured down
From pallid brows and languid limbs, till night
Fell on them with its darkness, covering deeds
Yet darker; and the morning grey looked in
On haggard faces, spectral forms, and eyes
Ghastly and vacant, drunk, but not with wine.
I, too, have known all this, have felt the blood
Rush like a boiling torrent through my veins,
Half-tempted, in the madness of the hour,
To be as Atys was, and like her priests
To serve the Goddess-mother; but the sense
Of memory, waking in me, held me back,
The hopes of many summers, and the face
Of one fair, bright-eyed maiden on the hills.
Of Phrygia's hills, and round the ancient shrines
Of old Galatian towns, there lingered still
Some traces of the wild, mysterious power,
The spell that bound our fathers to their faith.
54
Their wands, and clash their cymbals, and their song,
First stealing through the brain with subtle power,
Waking each nerve to tension,—then with floods
Of surging sound tumultuous, sweeping on,
Like some great river foaming in its pride,
Filled all the soul with madness; and the charm,
In one wild, dizzy, whirling, frenzied dance,
Drew all who worshipped; and the drops poured down
From pallid brows and languid limbs, till night
Fell on them with its darkness, covering deeds
Yet darker; and the morning grey looked in
On haggard faces, spectral forms, and eyes
Ghastly and vacant, drunk, but not with wine.
I, too, have known all this, have felt the blood
Rush like a boiling torrent through my veins,
Half-tempted, in the madness of the hour,
To be as Atys was, and like her priests
To serve the Goddess-mother; but the sense
Of memory, waking in me, held me back,
The hopes of many summers, and the face
Of one fair, bright-eyed maiden on the hills.
| Lazarus And other Poems | |