Classic and Contemporary Poetry
SCIENCE, by MARCUS S. C. RICKARDS First Line: Her temple crowns the common haunts Last Line: And glorifies our mortal dream. Subject(s): Nature; Science; Truth; Youth; Scientists | ||||||||
HER Temple crowns the common haunts, And they who deem her word Divine Must bend to one whose silence daunts The crowd at Superstition's shrine. That gushing Oracle of old Draws tender souls that will not brook A steep ascent, a goddess cold, Who never smiles in human look -- That seek a Guide whose sure replies Confirm the heart's raw fear and hope, Remove the scare that terrifies, And find for faery dreams full scope. The many throng her still, alack! As in the hoary World's fond youth; Nor reck that her prompt answers lack The signature Divine of Truth. They ask in tears, they leave with smiles, They rest and cling -- what need they more? And so that Prophetess beguiles The credulous with balm of yore. Her Fane stands mid the busy streets, With open portals wooing all: And O the crowd one ever meets Equipped for the delicious thrall! I seek the True. I scale the hill Where Science queens it in bleak state: The path is rough, the clime is chill -- What matter so I win her gate? I knock and enter -- lo! she stands, A Seeress mute, austere and stern: I kneel -- I clasp imploring hands -- "O teach!" I plead, "for I would learn." Unmoved, she opens out a scroll: O joy! 'tis writ by Truth's own pen -- 'Tis luminous -- its leaves unroll, And flash deep secrets on my ken. Mine to win all by patient quest, That touches life beneath the sun; And yet -- and yet -- this fevered breast Still clamours for a balm unwon, The balm my spirit craved from birth: Ah! empty dream to think that shine Thrown on the mysteries of Earth Could satisfy till that be mine. Who -- what unveils it? for that one Shall have my knee, my lip, my heart: O Science! mid thy truth, can none Uncurtain aught to heal this smart? She shakes her head -- she scarce has shown The vulgar Oracle at fault: Where shall I go? my heart is lone, My spirit faints, my footsteps halt. Back to the Fane of ages? Well. Perchance I might climb higher still, And yet be further from the spell That sheds relief on mortal ill. All Nature's cures lie near at hand: The dockleaf tends the nettle's sting; Supply waits ever on demand; By the hot wayside smiles the spring. What if this flow gush forth so free Because the Fountain is Divine? What if one high credential be The very charm that haunts the Shrine? What if the heart's just Author deemed That He would wrong its fairest claim Unless to Truth's celestial beam It glowed, and kindled into flame? Weak Superstition! call her so; Naught boots a name -- yet what if Wealth Through this time-honoured channel flow From the Eternal Home of Health; -- A channel clogged, befouled, defiled, Which naught can purge, none wholly clear, Yet holding all that has beguiled Sad restless souls through Time's career? Dark Superstition! true -- but Stars Smile through the deep of midnight gloom; And Luna glimmers thro' the bars Of each imprisoned sleeper's room. The dark expanse enshrines the Light, That inextinguishable gleam Which silvers o'er this dusky night And glorifies our mortal dream. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REACTIONARY ESSAY ON APPLIED SCIENCE by PHYLLIS MCGINLEY THE POLITICIAN OF THE IRISH EARLDOM by HILAIRE BELLOC AN AMERICAN SCENE by NORMAN DUBIE WHY WAIT FOR SCIENCE by ROBERT FROST DIXIT INSIPIENS by CAROLYN KIZER GLOBULE by ALICIA SUSKIN OSTRIKER A DREAM OF PERFECTION by MARCUS S. C. RICKARDS |
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