Classic Poem

L ALAGE , well do I know the dreams that arise in thy bosom,
For a beauty long perished from earth is the quest of thy wandering gaze.

Vain are the joys of the present, they come and they fade like a blossom;
Only in death dwells the truth and loveliness but in past days.

Lo, on the mount of the centuries Clio hath nimbly descended,
And bursts into song as she spreads her magnificent wings to the sky.
Beneath her the world's vast graveyard extends, all bathed in the splendid
Rays of the sun, that illumine her form as she towers on high

In the dawn of an age that is new. O poems that I dreamed in the tearless
Years of my youth, fly now to the loves that ye worshipped of old;

Thro' the heaven, thro' the heaven serene fly westward unfettered and fearless,
Where the beautiful Island of Dreams glows like a jewel of gold.

There wander the heroes majestic: tall Siegfried and fair-haired Achilles,
Yet grasping their spears as they sing by the shores of the echoing sea;

Ophelia, escaped from her wan-faced prince, to the one giveth lilies,
The other greets Iphigenia, from the knife and the altar set free;

Under a green-robed oak-tree stout Roland with Hector converses,
The great brand Durendala with gold and with jewels doth blaze;

While Andromache clasps to her bosom again the son that she nurses,
Alda the Fair on the fierce Emperor doth motionless gaze;

With the wandering OEdipus white-haired Lear of past sorrow is speaking,
And dim-eyed OEdipus still from his search for the Sphinx cannot cease;

Cordelia the dutiful cries: ‘Fair Antigone, thee was I seeking.
Grecian sister, O come! Let us sing to our fathers of peace’;

Helen, with Iseult beside her, 'neath the myrtles thoughtfully paces,
Their tresses of gold catch the gleam of the skies where the sunset is red;

Helen looks out to the sea: King Mark sweet Iseult embraces,
And bowed on his flowing beard reposes her golden head.

There with the Scottish Queen on the moonlit, magical beaches
Stands Clytemnestra: their round white arms to the sea-waves are bent:

But the sea flows backward in wrath from each bloodstained hand ere it reaches
The cleansing tide, and the cliffs but re-echo their bitter lament.

O fortunate island, far distant, unknown of poor labouring mortals,
Island of beautiful women, isle of heroical men,

Island of poets! The ocean uptosses its foam at they portals,
And thy sunset skies are the haven of birds that are strange to our ken.

There the roll of the Epic swells with a deep-toned musical thunder,
Shaking the laurels as when o'er the plain the May hurricanes pass.

Or when Wagner the mighty moves all hearts to tremble and wonder,
Breathing a thousand souls into the ringing brass.

Ah, but no modern poet e'er reached those ineffable places,
Only perchance thou, Shelley, whom a spirit Titanic inspires,

Who art fair with a virginal beauty; from Thetis' yearning embraces
Sophocles snatched thee, and placed thee amid those heroical choirs.

O heart of hearts, o'er this urn, thy cold, uncongenial prison,
The warm spring blossoms again with the fragrance of flower and fruit.

O heart of hearts, thy divine great father, the Sun, hath arisen,
And lovingly bathes thee in light, poor heart that for ever art mute.

Freshly murmur the pines to the breezes that sweep o'er the city;
Poet of liberty, answer, where art thou? Dost hear when we call?

Where art thou? Dost hearken? Mine eyes are wet with the tears of my pity
As I gaze o'er the mournful Campagna beyond the Aurelian wall.