The poet rose up on his feet: He stood before an altar set For sacrament, with vessels meet,
And mystic altar-lights which shine As if their flames were crystalline Carved flames that would not shrink or pine.
The altar filled the central place Of a great church, and toward its face Long aisles did shoot and interlace.
And from it a continuous mist Of incense (round the edges kissed By a pure light of amethyst)
Wound upward slowly and throbbingly, Cloud within cloud, right silverly, Cloud above cloud, victoriously,
Broke full against the arched roof, And, thence refracting, eddied off, And floated through the marble woof
Of many a fine-wrought architrave,- Then, poising the white masses brave, Swept solemnly down aisle and nave.
And now in dark, and now in light, The countless columns, glimmering white, Seemed leading out to Infinite.
Plunged half-way up the shaft they showed, In the pale shifting incense-cloud Which flowed them by, and overflowed,
Till mist and marble seemed to blend,
And the whole temple, at the end, With its own incense to distend;
The arches, like a giant's bow, To bend and slacken,-and below, The niched saints to come and go.
Alone, amid the shifting scene, That central altar stood serene In its clear stedfast taper-sheen.
Then first, the poet was aware Of a chief angel standing there Before that altar, in the glare.
His eyes were dreadful, for you saw That they saw God—his lips and jaw Grand-made and strong, as Sinai's Law
They could enunciate, and refrain From vibratory after-pain;
And his brow's height was sovereign
On the vast background of his wings Arose his image; and he flings, From each plumed arc, pale glitterings
And fiery flakes (as beateth more, Or less, the angel-heart) before, And round him, upon roof and floor,
Edging with fire the shifting fumes: While at his side, 'twixt lights and glooms, The phantasm of an organ booms.
Extending from which instrument And angel, right and left-way bent, The poet's sight grew sentient
Of a strange company around
And toward the altar,-pale and crowned, With sovran eyes of depth profound.
Deathful their faces were; and yet The power of life was in them set- Never forgot, nor to forget.
Sublime significance of mouth, Dilated nostril full of youth,
And forehead royal with the truth.
These faces were not multiplied Beyond your count, but side by side Did front the altar, glorified:
Still as a vision, yet exprest Full as an action-look and geste Of buried saint, in risen rest.
The poet knew them. Faint and dim His spirits seemed to sink in him, Then, like a dolphin, change and swim
The current-These were poets true, Who died for Beauty, as martyrs do For Truth-the ends being scarcely two.
God's prophets of the Beautiful These poets were—of iron rule, The rugged cilix, serge of wool.
Here, Homer, with the broad suspense Of thunderous brows, and lips intense Of garrulous god-innocence.
There, Shakespeare! on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the World. Oh, eyes sublime— With tears and laughters for all time!
Here, Æschylus,-the women swooned To see so awful, when he frowned As the gods did,-he standeth crowned.
Euripides, with close and mild Scholastic lips,-that could be wild, And laugh or sob out like a child,
Right in the classes. Sophocles,
With that king's look which, down the trees, Followed the dark effigies
Who, somewhat blind and deaf and cold,
Cared most for Gods and bulls. And bold
Electric Pindar, quick as fear,
With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear, Slant startled eyes that seem to hear
The chariot rounding the last goal, To hurtle past it in his soul. And Sappho, crowned with aureole
Of ebon curls on calmed brows- O poet-woman! none foregoes The leap, attaining the repose!
Theocritus, with glittering locks Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks He watched the visionary flocks.
And Aristophanes, who took
The world with mirth, and laughter-struck The hollow caves of Thought, and woke
The infinite echoes hid in each. And Virgil: shade of Mantuan beech Did help the shade of bay to reach
And knit around his forehead high ;- For his gods wore less majesty
Than his brown bees hummed deathlessly.
Lucretius-nobler than his mood:
Who dropped his plummet down the broad Deep universe, and said "No God,"
Finding no bottom : he denied Divinely the divine, and died Chief poet on the Tiber-side,
By grace of God! his face is stern, As one compelled, in spite of scorn, To teach a truth he could not learn.
And Ossian, dimly seen or guessed: Once counted greater than the rest, When mountain-winds blew out his vest.
And Spenser drooped his dreaming head (With languid sleep-smile, you had said, From his own verse engendered)
On Ariosto's, till they ran
Their locks in one.-The Italian Shot nimbler heat of bolder man
From his fine lids. And Dante stern And sweet, whose spirit was an urn For wine and milk poured out in turn.
Hard-souled Alfieri; and fancy-willed Boiardo,-who with laughters filled The pauses of the jostled shield.
And Berni, with a hand stretched out To sleek that storm. And not without The wreath he died in, and the doubt
He died by, Tasso; bard and lover, Whose visions were too thin to cover The face of a false woman over.
And soft Racine,-and grave Corneille— The orator of rhymes, whose wail
Scarce shook his purple. And Petrarch pale,
Who from his brain-lit heart hath thrown A thousand thoughts beneath the sun, Each perfumed with the name of One.
And Camoens, with that look he had, Compelling India's Genius sad From the wave through the Lusiad,
With murmurs of a purple ocean Indrawn in vibrative emotion
In his wild eyes fantastic shone
Between the bright curls blown upon
By airs celestial,-Calderon.
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