| |
| THOUGH Syria’s rock was passed at morn, | |
| The wind so faintly arched the sail, | |
| That ere to Delos we were borne, | |
| The autumn day began to fail, | |
| And only in Diana’s smiles | 5 |
| We reached the bay between the isles. | |
| |
| In sweet serenity of force | |
| She ruled the heavens without a star,— | |
| A sacred image that the course | |
| Of time and thought can hardly mar,— | 10 |
| As dear and nearly as divine | |
| As ever in Ephesian shrine. | |
| |
| I knew that on the spot I trod | |
| Her glorious twins Latona bore, | |
| That for her sake the pitying God | 15 |
| Had fixed the isle afloat before; | |
| And, fearful of his just disdain, | |
| I almost felt it move again. | |
| |
| For the delicious light that threw | |
| Such clear transparence on the wave, | 20 |
| From the black mastick-bushes drew | |
| Column and frieze and architrave, | |
| Like rocks, which, native to the place, | |
| Had something of mysterious grace. | |
| |
| “Strong was the power of art to bid | 25 |
| Arise such beauty out of stone, | |
| Yet Paros might as well have hid | |
| Its wealth within its breast unknown, | |
| As for brute Nature to regain | |
| The fragments of the fallen fane. | 30 |
| |
| “Who can rebuild these colonnades | |
| Where met the ancient festal host, | |
| The peasant from Arcadia’s glades, | |
| The merchant from Ionia’s coast, | |
| Gladdening their Grecian blood to stand | 35 |
| On one religious Fatherland?” | |
| |
| So in my angry discontent | |
| I cried, but calmer thoughts came on, | |
| And gratitude with sorrow blent, | |
| And murmur turned to orison: | 40 |
| I thanked the gods for what had been, | |
| And Nature for the present scene. | |
| |
| I felt that while in Greece remained | |
| Signs of that old heroic show, | |
| Hope, Memory’s sister, so sustained, | 45 |
| Would sink not altogether low, | |
| And Grecian hearts once more might be | |
| Combined in powerful amity. | |
| |
| Long ere the sun’s most curious ray | |
| Had touched the morning’s zone of pearl, | 50 |
| I and my boat were far away, | |
| Raised on the water’s freshening curl; | |
| And barely ’twixt the rose and blue | |
| The island’s rim was still in view. | |
| |
| So Delos rests upon my mind, | 55 |
| A perfect vision of the night, | |
| A picture by moon-rays designed, | |
| And shaded into black and bright,— | |
| A true idea borne away, | |
| Untroubled by the dreamless day. | 60 |
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