Classic Poem

Here, where in dim forgotten days
A savage people chanted lays
To long since perished gods, I stand
The sea breaks in, runs up the sand,
Retreats as with a long-drawn sigh,
Sweeps in again; again leaves dry
The ancient beach, so old and yet
So new that as the strong tides fret
The island barriers in their flow
The ebb-hours of each day can know
A surface change. The day is dead,
The sun is set, and overhead
The white north stars shine keen and bright
The wind upon the sea is light
And just enough to stir the deep
With phosphorescent gleams and sweep
The spray from salt waves as they rise
And yonder light — is't from the skies
Some meteor strange, a burning star —
Or a lamp hung upon a spar
Of vessel undescribed? It gleams
And rises slowly, till it seems
A burning isle, an angel-throne
Reset on earth, a mountain-cone
Of gold new-risen from sea-caves —
Until at last above the waves
Salt with Atlantic brine, it swims
A silver crescent. Now no hymns
In the wild Runic speech are heard,
No chant, no sacrificial word:
But only moans the weary sea,
And only the cold wind sings free,
And where the Runic temples stood
The bat flies and the owl doth brood.