Classic Poem

Hither , with reverent spirit, bend thy steps,
Scarce breathing. We are on the Sacred Way
Of Athens, leading out to Eleusis.
A nation's heart is in this dust! Its faith
Lies in these altars! See you not, we move
'Mongst monuments of might, which thus are made
Sacred themselves; deriving honor due
From honors they record? A calm delight
Subdues our awe. We pass through aged groves,
And sense-beguiling gardens, which lead on
By Cephissus' sweet streams, even to the heights
Of oegaleus, and the sacred plain,
Where all is soul once more!
Oh! we shall dream
Of these hereafter, when, in western lands,
We trace the unnoted forests. Shall they have
Such altars? They have names of might like these;
Marble like this of pure Pentelicus; —
Yes, but the Phidias, — the Praxiteles; —
Where is the genius sworn to Fame, — the art
That hallows as it touches, and bids speak
The stubborn marble? We had better ask
For the religion which demands the shrine!
It is the Faith that makes the Priest — he comes
To serve the recognized master, not to make!
The popular heart must feel the god — must glow
With his divinity, ere it builds the shrine,
Or summons Priests to service! Patience! patience!
For us, there must be one great labor first, —
First make our sacred way!