Our new, west world, the Persian's god looks on
To-day as in those other days áfar,
Before was felt the influence of the star
That waked a holier worship than the sun.
Once in each passing year upon his throne,
(Flashing abroad a glittering scimetar
And robed in robes of trailing cinnabar)
He sits triumphant, yielding sway to none.
Fruits blushing crimson in his fervid glance
Whose warmth has made their happiness complete,
Drop down content to languish at his feet.
And flowers, no colder lover could entrance,
See in his face the fulness of their hope,
And smile to hear men call them Heliotrope.