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THE PILGRIM OF FATE.
To Destiny I pilgrim went
For whom alone no altars rise,
No incense fumes, no spikenard drips.
She gazes down the centuries
On all eternity intent.
A smile upon her marble lips.
I mute before her Idol bowed
Whose peace nor praise nor prayer stirs,
Whom Gods revere and Dæmons dread,
Who still, by myriad ministers
The passive leads but drag the proud
The way predestin'd each must tread.
How should she heedthat stony sphynx
The tiny flame which lights our years?
Our puny heart that throbs and bleeds?
