Classic Poem

6.

Then, westward turn'd the sable four;
The stately whiteness westward turn'd;
Them following, he the nursling bore;
And, rais'd aloft, the torches burn'd.
How strangely, pillars vast
On each hand pass'd!
How grandly, overhead,
Domes, following domes, behind them fled,
All in deep silence! Silence deep
Lay on the fretted roof, like sleep;
And there the moonlight lay, like death
It could not pierce the gloom beneath,
Where a broad orb, beheld afar,
Shone westward, like a crimson star,
And other light was none;
Save of the torches red, green, blue,
Purple, and golden. Round they threw
Their intermingled ghastness wild,
While laugh'd with joy th' undaunted child;
But when he reach'd, with soundless feet,
The Presence, and the Judgment-Seat,
Torches and bearers all were gone!
Then, paus'd the Wanderer. North and south,
He look'd on aisles of age-long growth,
Tree-pillar'd high, branch-arch'd, star-proof,
Cut short in darkness. Where he stood
Within the kernel of the wood,
The central vastness stretch'd out wide
Its space sublime and sanctified;
Of such a temple fitting choir;
Worthy of its eternal roof,
The bright, blue, moon'd, and starry sky,
That dom'd its dread tranquillity,
Commanding leaf and flower to grow
In sad and silvery light below;
For such a choir meet canopy.
Before him glar'd the globe of fire,
Scattering innocuous blaze and spark;
And all beneath was dark;
Save that the Wanderer might espy,
Beneath the globe of flame,
A pallid brow, a glittering eye,
That slowly went and came.
" Say, " spake a voice of deepest tone',
" What man art thou — of men alone —
Who dar'st the shadow of the throne? "