IDOLS.
How weak the gods of this world are—
And weaker yet their worship made me!
I have been an idolater
Of three—and three times they betray'd me.
Mine oldest worshipping was given
To natural Beauty, aye residing
In bowery earth and starry heav'n,
In ebbing sea, and river gliding.
But natural Beauty shuts her bosom
To what the natural feelings tell!
Albeit I sigh'd, the trees would blossom—
Albeit I smiled, the blossoms fell.
Then left I earthly sights, to wander
Amid a grove of name divine,
Where bay-reflecting streams meander,
And Moloch Fame hath rear'd a shrine.
Not green, but black, is that reflection;
On rocky beds those waters lie;
That grove hath chilness and dejection.—
How could I sing? I had to sigh.
Last, human Love, thy Lares greeting,
To rest and warmth I vow'd my years.
To rest? how wild my pulse is beating!
To warmth? ah me! my burning tears.
Ay! they may burn—though thou be frozen
By death, and changes wint'ring on!
Fame—Beauty!—idols madly chosen—
Were yet of gold; but thou art stone!
Crumble like stone! my voice no longer
Shall wail their names, who silent be:
There is a voice that soundeth stronger—
'My daughter, give thine heart to me.'
Lord! take mine heart! Oh first and fairest,
Whom all creation's ends shall hear;
Who deathless love in death declarest!
None else is beauteous—famous—dear!