Classic and Contemporary Poetry
KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, by GEORGE SANTAYANA Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: The buttress frowns, the gorgeous windows blaze Last Line: And the same hand that finished overthrew. Subject(s): Churches; Cambridge University | ||||||||
The buttress frowns, the gorgeous windows blaze, The vault hangs wonderful with woven fans, The four stone sentinels to heaven raise Their heads, in a more constant faith than man's. The College gathers, and the courtly prayer Is answered still by hymn and organ-groan; The beauty and the mystery are there, The Virgin and Saint Nicholas are gone. Not one Ora pro nobis bids them pause In their far flight, to hear this anthem roll; No heart, of all that the King's relic awes, Sings Requiescat to his mournful soul. No grain of incense thrown upon the embers Of their cold hearth, no lamp in witness hung Before their image. One alone remembers; Only the stranger knows their mother tongue. Long rows of tapers light the people's places; The little choristers may read, and mark The rhythmic fall; I see their wondering faces; Only the altar -- like the soul -- is dark. Ye floating voices through these arches ringing With measured music, subtle, sweet, and strong, Feel ye the inmost reason of your singing? Know ye the ancient burden of your song? The twilight deepens, and the blood-dyed glories Of all these fiery blazonings are dim. Oh, they are jumbled, sad, forgotten stories! Why should ye read them, children? Chant your hymn. But I must con them while the rays of even Kindle aloft some fading jewel-gleam And the vast windows glow a peopled heaven, Rich with the gathering pageant of my dream. Eden I see, where from the leafy cover The green-eyed snake begins to uncoil his length And whispers to the woman and her lover, As they lie musing, large, in peaceful strength. I see their children, bent with toil and terror, Lurking in caves, or heaping madly on The stones of Babel, or the endless error Of Sodom, Nineveh, and Babylon. Here the Egyptian, wedding life with death, Flies from the sun into his painted tomb, And winds the secret of his antique faith Tight in his shroud, and seals in sterile gloom. There the bold prophets of the heart's desire Hail the new Zion God shall build for them, And rapt Isaiah strikes the heavenly lyre, And Jeremiah mourns Jerusalem. Here David's daughter, full of grace and truth, Kneels in the temple, waiting for the Lord; With the first Ave comes the winged youth, Bringing the lily ere he bring the sword. There, to behold the Mother and the Child, The sturdy shepherds down the mountain plod, And angels sing, with voices sweet and wild And wide lips parted: "Glory be to God." Here, mounted on an ass, the twain depart To hallowed Egypt, safe from Herod's wrong; And Mary ponders all things in her heart, And pensive Joseph sadly walks along. There with the Twelve, before his blood is shed, Christ blesses bread and breaks it with his hands, "This is my body." Thomas shakes his head, They marvel all, and no one understands, Save John, whom Jesus loved above the rest. He marvels too, but, seeking naught beside, Leans, as his wont is, on his Master's breast. Ah! the Lord's body also should abide. There Golgotha is dark against the blue In the broad east, above the painted crowd, And many look upon the sign, but few Read the hard lesson of the cross aloud. And from this altar, now an empty tomb, The Lord is risen. Lo! he is not here. No shining angel sitteth in the gloom, No Magdalen in anguish draweth near. All pure in heart, or all in aspect pure, The seemly Christians, kneeling, line the choir, And drop their eyelids, tender and demure, As the low lingering harmonies expire. In that Amen are the last echoes blended Of all the ghostly world. The shades depart Into the sacred night. In peace is ended The long delirious fever of the heart. Then I go forth into the open wold And breathe the vigour of the freshening wind, And with the piling drift of cloud I hold A worship sweeter to the homeless mind, Where the squat willows with their osiers crowned Border the humble reaches of the Cam, And the deep meadows stretching far around Make me forget the exile that I am, -- Exile not only from the wind-swept moor Where Guadarrama lifts his purple crest, But from the spirit's realm, celestial, sure Goal of all hope and vision of the best. They also will go forth, these gentle youths, Strong in the virtues of their manful isle, Till one the pathway of the forest smooths, And one the Ganges rules, and one the Nile; And to whatever wilderness they choose Their hearts will bear the sanctities of home, The perfect ardours of the Grecian Muse, The mighty labour of the arms of Rome; But, ah! how little of these storied walls Beneath whose shadow all their nurture was! No, not one passing memory recalls The Blessed Mary and Saint Nicholas. Unhappy King, look not upon these towers, Remember not thine only work that grew. The moving world that feeds thy gift devours, And the same hand that finished overthrew. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER by JOHN MILTON WHIGS AND TORIES by WILLIAM BROWNE (1692-1774) THE CANDIDATE by CHARLES CHURCHILL ELEGY UPON DOCTOR CHADDERTON, THE FIRST MASTER OF EMANUEL COLLEGE by JOHN CLEVELAND HOW THE COMMENCEMENT GROWS NEW by JOHN CLEVELAND AD CHLOEN, M.A.; FRESH FROM HER CAMBRIDGE EXAMINATION by EDWARD JAMES MORTIMER COLLINS A DEDICATORY ELEGY TO THE ... UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE by ABRAHAM COWLEY LINES ON DR. ROBERT SMITH by THOMAS GRAY SATIRE ON THE HEADS OF HOUSES by THOMAS GRAY |
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