Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LOST CARYATID, by BAYARD TAYLOR


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LOST CARYATID, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When over salamis stands homer's moon
Last Line: "shall build once more our home."
Alternate Author Name(s): Taylor, James Bayard
Subject(s): Beauty; Faith; Fear; Moon; Belief; Creed


WHEN over Salamis stands Homer's moon,
And from the wasted wave
Of spent Ilissus falls no liquid croon,
But tears that wet a grave;
When on Pentelicus the quarried scars
Are dusk as dying stars;

When Attica's gray olives blend and gleam
Like sea-mists o'er the plain;
And, islanded in Time's eternal stream,
Only Athene's fane
Shines forth, when every light of heaven must kiss
Art's one Acropolis:

Then, unto him -- the modern Hellenes say --
In whom old dreams survive;
For whom the force of each immorta day
Earth knew, is yet alive --
To him who waits and listens there alone,
Rises a strange, sweet moan.

The voice of broken marble, the complaint
Of beauty nigh despair,
In the thick wilderness of years grown faint
For lack of rite and prayer,
Since all perfection, making her sublime,
Provoked her evil time.

It floats around the Panathenaic frieze
Till every triglyph sings,
While up from Dionysian chairs the breeze
A murmurous answer brings;
But most it gathers voice, and rests upon
The spoiled Erechtheion.

There the white architrave that fronts the east
Lightly five sisters hold
As blossom-baskets at a bridal feast,
Or jars of Samian gold:
Each proud and pure, and still a glorious wraith
Of Beauty wed to Faith!

The sixth has vanished, from the service torn,
Long since, by savage hands,
And keeps dumb vigil where the misty morn
Creeps o'er Cimmerian lands;
While they, in pallid lip and dew-damp cheek
Lament, and seem to speak:

"Where art thou, sister? Thee, the sparkling day,
The moonbeam, finds no more,
Save in some hall where darker gods decay
On some barbarian shore!
Ah, where, beyond Poseidon's bitter foam,
Hear'st thou the voice of home?

"Where, when, as now, the night's mys terious hush
Our ancient life renews,
Or when the tops of Corydallus flush
O'er the departing dews --
And lovely Attica, in silver spread,
Forgets that she is dead --

'Bidest thou in exile? Speak! Our being cold, --
Thou knowest! -- yet retains
The thrill of choric strophes, flutes of gold,
And all victorious strains.
Dark is the world that knows not us divine;
But, ah! what fate is thine?"

Do! from afar, across unmeasured seas
An answering sound is blown,
As when some wind-god's ghost moves
Thessaly's
Tall pines to solemn tone;
Yet happy, as a sole Arcadian flute,
When harvest-fields are mute.

"I hear ye, sisters!" -- thus the answer falls:
"My marble sends reply
To you, who guard the fair, immortal halls
Beneath our ancient sky;
Yet give no sadder echo to your moan, --
I am not here alone!

"Dark walls surround me; that keen azure fire
Of day and night is fled;
Yet worship clothes me, and the old desire
That round your feet is dead:
I see glad eyes, I feel fresh spirits burn,
And beauteous faith return!

What idle hand or scornful set me here
I heed no longer now;
Men know my loveliness, and, half in fear,
Touch mine insulted brow:
In me the glory of the gods discrowned
The race again has found.

'More proudly, sisters, bear your architrave
Without me, whom ye miss!
I'ruth finds her second birthplace, not her grave,
On our Acropolis!
And children here, while there but aliens roam,
Shall build once more our home."





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