Classic Poem

HAIL ! daughter of the sun!
White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now
In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow,
Crowned with white blooms, begun
To grow a-weary of its fragrant wreath,
And do thy temples long to ache beneath
A gilded, iron crown?
Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car
To be the gleam of some new-risen star —
Yond clamor, for renown?

Stay, lovely one, oh stay!
Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain:
For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain —
He is the same alway.
This god in burnished tinsel, as of old,
Cares for no music save of clinking gold —
All else to him is vain:
His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead;
A crown of care he bringeth for thy head,
And for thy wrists a chain.

Bide thou, oh, goddess, stay!
Even in the gateway turn. The orange tree
Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee;
The jasmine's starry spray
Still waves thee back: O South! thy glory lies
In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise
Thy day, which fadeth not:
There — patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine,
There — hearts devoted, make thy name divine,
Their own hard fate forgot.