Beyond the gates of Hercules
The seven builders took the stone,
Spurned everywhere in days of ease,
Long lying loose and overthrown,
Now carried over bitter seas
Where crystally Arcturus shone!
Well for the demi-gods who chose
The granite long accursed, and well
They hollow squared it to enclose
The book defying time and hell,
And human guile and force, its foes
While tyrants rose and systems fell.
So in a sky of malachite,
Azured by sunlight, they upreared,
True to the Northstar's level light,
The temple for a faith revered;
Founded upon an ancient right
And all men worshipped, or they feared.
No wealth of carved bucranium
O'erwrought the plain entablature.
The Sea wind's keen harmonium
Found the great Dorians hard and sure,
Holding the topless roof o'er swum
By Heaven's eternal coverture.
Here should the temple's keeper live,
Sifted alike by art and time.
Above him heaven's blue to give
His spirit limitless sweep and rhyme,
To rain nor gray cloud sensitive,
Nor the world's changing pantomime.
Never the eagle with wide-wings
Should see the Gallic cockerel perch
Hereon; nor hear the voice that sings
An ancient sadness, fain to search
The straining grief of fallen kings,
Haunting the bloody mother-church.
After a time the seven seers
Let slip the chisel, dead for sleep.
And left to those of after years,
(Hands skilled in ruin dark and deep)
To slay the ghosts of olden fears,
And, as it was, the [correction; sic = teh] temple keep.
Who was he, pray, who first shut out
With level roof the needful sky?
Who let the rich acanthus flout
The frozen squares, or falsify
The stately cornice with a rout
Of winged gargoyles, prone to fly
Yet it was done; and still afar
The eagle clothed in lightnings saw
The temple stand without a scar,
Faithful as mountains to the law;
Albeit even of glory and war
The keeper dreamed in twilight's awe.
Never the eagle at heaven's peak
Should mark the temple's wreck or fall.
And still the feeble years would wreak
Some fitful fancy over all,
Some Gothic finial, masque or freak,
Or tracery work of lesser Gaul.
Soon from afar the vultures spied
The archd roof above the fane.
The heavy battlements deep and wide,
Turrets and pinnacles of Spain,
The temple's fallen grace bestride,
The temple's holy art profane.
And croaking, as they drew anear
They saw the Moorish columns raised
Where stood the Dorians tall severe.
And here and there the marble blazed
For watchmen and the cannoneer,
And sleepless oriels unamazed.
Within what change had come to pass!
What keeps below, what traps above,
What arabesques of bronze and brass,
What secret stairs for hate or love,
Of gold and treasure what a mass,
In barbarous legend spoken of.
Lo! the Escurial on new ground,
Virgin to faggot and the sword,
And many slaves who stood around,
Bribed for the task, seduced the horde
To worship with tumultuous sound
These ancient horrors thus restored.
But yet within the frieze, beneath
The pendants, masques or porticoes
What Ethiop eggs, defying death,
Spawned long ago, lay in repose!
Transported hither, given breath
To fill the air with winged woes!
Under a snarling gargoyle slept
A life which Time was loath to stir.
Yet when the treasure, sternly kept,
Fattened on fraud and massacre,
And men lost hope and women wept,
This spirit broke its sepulchre.
And flitted forth amid the night,
Which made the sun's face ghastly pale,
Upon its quest of guilt and might,
Evil and hideous and frail;
Alien, long dead, but brought to light
Its ancient foe to countervail --
A devil-cherub with dark wings,
A bat-like fiend, equipped to kill
With seasoned venom from its stings;
A voice of madness far too shrill
For men to hear, long heard of kings,
Who saw not till it did its will.
This struck the temple's keeper dead
Wheeling upon an aimless course,
New hatched and blinded, sick, misled
By its new world; with dull remorse --
Thence from the gargoyle's soul imbred
To do its work of blood and force.
Never the eagle at heaven's peak
Should mark the temple's wreck or fall.
Nor see the feeble builders wreak
Some fitful fancy over all,
Some Gothic finial, masque or freak,
Or tracery work of lesser Gaul.
Nor sailing far aloft behold
The temple's steps with blood distained.
Nor feel the snake's fangs blue and cold
Strike as his spirit waxed and waned.
Nor see the vultures growing bold
Croak o'er an empery regained.
* * * * * * * *
Still on a jut of lofty land,
Strange for its barbarous array,
The temple waits the Phidian hand,
The over-work to tear away,
And leave its simple self to stand
The myriad ages to survey!
