I O FORTRESS of the Spirit, and thyself But yesterday a soul! What art thou now But walls and memory? Thou art than Man Not more immortal, though from dawn to dawn Of seven centuries thou heardst the tread Of swarming generations plodding by. Precinct of Peace, -- now torn by wanton War; Altar where Morning might her matins say Or Evening chant her vespers, -- now o'erthrown; Refuge for ages to the unconsoled By all but God forsaken: who hath dared Thy sanctuary now to violate? Thou that wert pride and cynosure of Art, Trumpet of History, a nation's shrine, Christener of Kings, a yearning world's delight, -- Thy mellow voice from out the faded Past Is silent as thy belfry's sunken choir. For this it is, although we nightly bear The daily burden of mankind's distress Till the vast anguish numbs the wearied sense, Still heavier are our heavy hearts to-day. II How, with cold stone and scant and loveless toil, Shall be rebuilt the spirit of this fane? Who shall recloud its aisles with mystery, Till the beholder views himself with awe? How shall spilled wine, treasure of time and sun, Be from the ground regathered? Who shall invent The arts here lost, the accent of their speech? Who shall replant the race, and then await Its centuried ripening? Mourn, oh, mourn, mourn, mourn The brave that fall beneath this harvest moon When Death's swift sickle flies -- each in his calm A ruined temple of the Living God! They, too, are gone, but not as thou art gone, For, though Love doubt, still clings our faith to this: 'T is but their bodies have been slain; but here, Here, where the mortal craves celestial life, Man has been able to destroy a soul! III OF what avail to find the vandal hands, The few barbarians, by whose feeblest touch This deed was wrought from far? They witness well The paradox of life that frights our peace: @3The weak is stronger than the strong!@1 For who To-day so built in greatness as to be Armored against a whim? A paltry match By malice struck, or mischief, and the town Rushes to sky and earth in ruin! Yet -- Shall we absolve the nameless for the known, Who, choosing war, chose aught that war might bring And murdered all this hoarded beauty? No, Though they should vaunt a thousand victories This is their dire defeat. Here have they reached All that ambition coveted, reversed. Thinking on Rheims hereafter, and on them, The world's heart shall grow leaden with dismay, And age to age the shame reverberate So loud, so far, that legions yet unborn, Learning their loss, shall execrate the crime And, grieving, mingle pity with their blame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MESSAGES by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON HELIOTROPE by HARRY THURSTON PECK INVITES POETS AND HISTORIANS TO WRITE IN CYNTHIA'S PRAISE by PHILIP AYRES THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE WALNUT-TREE OF BOARSTELL: CANTO 2 by WILLIAM BASSE TO A LADY FOR A NOSEGAY by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD INCLUSIONS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TRACKING THE NIGHT CREATURE by SCOTT CHISHOLM ISRAEL'S GOD by LAWRENCE COHEN OUT OF THE SHADOWS: AN UNFINISHED SONNET-SEQUENCE 9 by JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER JR. |